THE GUARDIAN-ANGEL: A PICTURE AT FANO. D EAR and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave Let me sit all the day here, that when eve Shall find performed thy special ministry Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more, With those wings, white above the child who prays Now on that tomb, and I shall feel thee guarding Me, out of all the world; for me, discarding Yon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door! I would not look up thither past thy head Because the door opes, like that child, I know, For I should have thy gracious face instead, Thou bird of God! And wilt thou bend me low Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together, And lift them up to pray, and gently tether Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread? If this was ever granted, I would rest My head beneath thine, while thy healing hands Close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast, Pressing the brain, which too much thought expands, Back to its proper size again, and smoothing Distortion down till every nerve had soothing, And all lay quiet, happy, and supprest. How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired! Guercino drew this angel I saw teach (Alfred, dear friend,) — that little child to pray, Holding the little hands up, each to each Pressed gently, - with his own head turned away Over the earth where so much lay before him Of work to do, though heaven was opening o'er him, And he was left at Fano by the beach. We were at Fano, and three times we went -My angel with me too: and since I care And since he did not work so earnestly At all times, and has else endured some wrong, · I took one thought his picture struck from me, And spread it out, translating it to song. My Love is here. Where are you, dear old friend? How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end? This is Ancona, yonder is the sea. I TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA. WONDER do you feel to-day As I have felt, since, hand in hand, For me, I touched a thought, I know, Help me to hold it: first it left The yellowing fennel, run to seed There, branching from the brickwork's cleft, Some old tomb's ruin yonder weed Took up the floating weft, Where one small orange cup amassed Five beetles, - blind and green they grope Among the honey-meal, — and last Everywhere on the grassy slope I traced it. Hold it fast! The champaign with its endless fleece Such life there, through such lengths of hours, How say you? Let us, O my dove, I would that you were all to me, I would I could adopt your will, See with your eyes, and set my heart Beating by yours, and drink my fill At your soul's springs, — your part, my part In life, for good and ill. No. I yearn upward, -touch you close, Catch your soul's warmth, I pluck the rose And love it more than tongue can speak,— Then the good minute goes. Already how am I so far Out of that minute? Must I go Still like the thistle-ball, no bar, Onward, whenever light winds blow, Fixed by no friendly star? Just when I seemed about to learn! Where is the thread now? Off again! The old trick! Only I discern Infinite passion and the pain of finite hearts that yearn. THE PATRIOT. AN OLD STORY. T was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad. The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway, The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, A year ago on this very day! The air broke into a mist with bells, The old walls rocked with the crowds and cries. Had I said, "Good folks, mere noise repels, But give me your sun from yonder skies!" They had answered, " And afterward, what else?" Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun, To give it my loving friends to keep. Naught man could do, have I left undone, And you see my harvest, what I reap This very day, now a year is run. There's nobody on the house-tops now, I go in the rain, and, more than needs, |