Good-night! good-night! I do not fear the end, The conflict with the billows dark and high; And yet, if I could touch thy hand, my friend, I think it would be easier to die; If I could feel through all the quiet waves Of my deep hair thy tender breath a-thrill, And pain of parting I should hear thy call, It may not be. Good-night, dear friend, good-night! And hear, through boughs with swollen buds a-white, Remember her whose young life held thy name REQUIESCAT BURY me deep when I am dead, Far from the woods where sweet birds sing; Lap me in sullen stone and lead, Lest my poor dust should feel the Spring. Never a flower be near me set, Nor starry cup nor slender stem, Lest my poor dust remember them. And you wherever you may fare- The King's Ballad 1095 THE FOUR WINDS WIND of the North, Wind of the Norland snows, Wind of the winnowed skies and sharp, clear stars- Wind of the West, Wind of the few, far clouds, Wind of the gold and crimson sunset lands— Wind of the East, Wind of the sunrise seas, Wind of the clinging mists and gray, harsh rains- But thou, sweet wind! Wind of the fragrant South, Wind from the bowers of jasmine and of rose!— And flowering forests come with dewy wings, And stir the petals at her feet, and kiss The low mound where she lies. Charles Henry Lüders [1858-1891] THE KING'S BALLAD GOOD my King, in your garden close, Why so sad when the maiden rose Love at your feet is spilling? Golden the air and honey-sweet, Sapphire the sky, it is not meet Sorrowful faces should flowers greet, (Hark to the thrush's trilling). All alone walks the King to-day. Roses and tulips and lilies fair Yet of their joyance he takes no share, (Hark to the thrush's trilling). Ladies wait in the palace, Sire, (Hark to the thrush's trilling) Red and white for the king's desire, Breasts of moonshine and hair of night, (Hark to the thrush's trilling). Kneels the King in a grassy place, (Hark to the thrush's trilling) Little flowers under his face With his warm tears are filling. Says the King, "Here my heart lies dead Would I were lying here instead!" (Hark to the thrush's trilling). AMID the chapel's chequered gloom She laughed with Dora and with Flora, And chattered in the lecture-room,— That saucy little sophomora! Heliotrope Yet while, as in her other schools, But when he spoke of varied lore, Of that particular professor. And he had learned, among his books Her sunny smile, her winsome ways, Were more to him than all his knowledge, She whispered to her heart's confessor. Yet once when Christmas bells were rung Pealed through the dim cathedral arches,— And a sweet spray of heliotrope Left on his littered study-table. 1097 Nor came she more from day to day The ever-silent snows were drifting; And those who mourned her winsome face And loved another in her place All, save the silent old professor. But, in the tender twilight gray, Of the dead spray of heliotrope That once she gave the old professor. "LYDIA IS GONE THIS MANY A YEAR" LYDIA is gone this many a year, Yet when the lilacs stir, In the old gardens far or near, They climb the twisted chamber stair; On the carved shelf beneath it there, A ghost so long has Lydia been, Seems not her cloak at all. The book, the box on mantle laid, Are those of some dim little maid, |