"YEA, AND WILL FORTUNE PICK OUT, NOW AND THEN, THE NOBLEST FOR THE ANVIL OF HER BLOWS!"-MORRIS.

"THOUGH ON NEW ROSEBUDS THE NEW SUN SHALL SMILE,-(MORRIS)

"THE HAPPY ARE THE MASTERS OF THE EARTH, WHICH EVER GIVE SMALL HEED TO HAPLESS WORTH."-MORRIS.

["And heavy measured beating of the oars: so left the Argo the Thessalian shores."]

Glorious with gold, and shining in the sun.
Then first they shouted, and each man began
Against his shield to strike his brazen spear;
And as along the quays they drew a-near,
Faster they strode and faster, till a cry
Again burst from them, and right eagerly
Into swift running did they break at last,
Till all the wind-swept quay being overpast,
They pressed across the gangway, and filled up
The hollow ship as wine a golden cup.

Now silent sat the heroes by the oar,

Hearkening the sounds borne from the lessening shore;

CAN WE REGAIN WHAT WE HAVE LOST MEANWHILE?"-W. MORRIS.

life flitteth FAST, AND While it still ABIDES,-(MORRIS)

A FAIR LANDSCAPE.

The lowing of the doomed and flower-crowned beasts,
The plaintive singing of the ancient priests,

Mingled with blare of trumpets, and the sound
Of all the many folk that stood around
The altar and the temple by the sea.

So sat they pondering much and silently,
Till all the landward noises died away,

And, midmost now of the green sunny bay,
They heard no sound but washing of the seas,
And piping of the following western breeze,
And heavy measured beating of the oars:
So left the Argo the Thessalian shores.

[From "The Life and Death of Jason,” book iv.]

"DRAG ON, LONG NIGHT OF WINTER, IN WHOSE HEART, NURSE OF REGRET, THE DEAD SPRING YET HAS PART!

323

DRAG ON, O NIGHT OF DREAMS! O NIGHT OF FEARS! FED BY THE SUMMERS OF THE BYGONE YEARS!"-MORRIS.

A FAIR LANDSCAPE.

H, the sweet valley of deep grass,
Where through the summer stream doth

pass,

In chain of shallow, and still pool,
From misty morn to evening cool;
Where the black ivy creeps and twines
O'er the dark-armèd, red-trunked pines,
Whence clattering the pigeon flits,
Or, brooding o'er her thin eggs, sits,
And every hollow of the hills
With echoing songs the mavis fills.
There by the stream, all unafraid,
Shall stand the happy shepherd maid,
Alone in first of sunlit hours;

Behind her, on the dewy flowers,

OUR FOLLY MANY A GOOD THING FROM US HIDES."-W. MORRIS.

IS IT PERCHANCE LEST MEN SHOULD COME TO TELL EACH UNTO OTHER WHAT A PAIN IT IS, WILLIAM MORRIS)

["And every hollow of the hills with echoing songs the mavis fills."]

Her homespun woollen raiment lies,
And her white limbs and sweet gray eyes
Shine from the calm green pool and deep,
While round about the swallows sweep.
[From "The Life and Death of Jason," book xiv.]

UNHOLPEN, WITH HIS PAIN UNNAMEABLE!-(MORRIS)

HOW LITTLE BALANCED BY THE SULLIED BLISS THEY WON FOR SOME FEW MINUTES OF THEIR LIFE?"-MORRIS.

66

A WORD OF PRAISE, PERCHANCE OF BLAME;-(MOTHERWELL)

THE SWORD CHANT OF THORSTEIN RAUDI, 325

William Motherwell.

[WILLIAM MOTHERWELL was born at Glasgow in 1797. He received a legal education, and in 1818 was appointed to the office of sheriff-clerkdepute of the county of Renfrew, which he held until 1829. He then became editor of a Glasgow newspaper, and entering with too much ardour into the political warfare which preceded and attended the enactment of the great Reform measure of 1832, wore out his mental and physical strength, and eventually succumbed to an attack of apoplexy, on the 1st of November 1835. His scattered poetical compositions, which evidence a remarkable command of spirited versification, and an undercurrent of tender and pathetic feeling, have been collected in one small volume.]

"GREEN LIE THOSE THICKLY-TIMBERED SHORES FAIR-SLOPING TO THE SEA:-(w.

MOTHERWELL)

THEY'RE CUMBERED WITH THE HARVEST-STORES THAT WAVE BUT FOR THE FREE."-MOTHERWELL.

THE SWORD CHANT OF THORSTEIN RAUDI.

IS not the gray hawk's flight
O'er mountain and mere;

'Tis not the fleet hound's course
Tracking the deer;

'Tis not the light hoof-print
Of black steed or gray,
Though sweltering it gallop
A long summer's day;
Which mete forth the lordships

I challenge as mine;—
Ha ha! 'tis the good brand
I clutch in my strong hand,
That can their broad marches

And numbers define.
LAND GIVER! I kiss thee.

Dull builders of house,
Base tillers of earth,
Gaping, ask me what lordships

I owned at my birth;

AY, THIS IS GLORY, THIS IS FAME!"-WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

"I'VE WANDERED EAST, I'VE WANDERED WEST, THROUGH MONY A WEARY WAY-MOTHERWELL)

326

"WHAT IS GLORY? WHAT IS FAME?-(MOTHerwell)

WILLIAM MOTHER Well.

But the pale fools wax mute
When I point with my sword,
East, west, north, and south,

Shouting, "There am I Lord!"
Wold and waste, town and tower,

Hill, valley, and stream,
Trembling, bow to my sway
In the fierce battle fray,

When the star that rules Fate is
His falchion's red gleam.
MIGHT GIVER! I kiss thee.

I've heard great harps sounding

In brave bower and hall,
I've drank the sweet music
That bright lips let fall,
I've hunted in greenwood,
And heard small birds sing;
But away with this idle
And cold jargoning;

The music I love is

The shout of the brave,

The yell of the dying,
The scream of the flying,
When this arm wields Death's sickle,
And garners the grave.
JOY GIVER! I kiss thee.

Far isles of the ocean
Thy lightning have known,
And wide o'er the mainland
Thy horrors have shone.
Great sword of my father,
Stern joy of his hand,

THE ECHO OF A LONG-LOST NAME. -MOTHERWELL.

BUT NEVER, NEVER CAN FORGET THE LUVE O' LIFE'S YOUNG DAY!"-WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.