(Pastoral.)

Here where shallows ripple by, And the woody banks are high, Every little wind that frets Waves the scent of violets; Here the greening beech has made Such a palace of cool shade, You and I would rather sit Silent in the shade of it, Seeking questions and replies Only through each other’s eyes. Sweet, than climb the thorny ways Up their barren hills of praise. In the gloom of yonder glen Hides the crimson cyclamen, And the tall narcissus still Lingers near the reedy rill, In the ooze the rushes grow Pipes for merry lips to blow; Here the songs that we shall sing Shall be all of love or spring; Here the emerald dragon-fly Flits and stays and passes by, While the bird that overhead Mocked our song, grows unafraid, Splashing till his breast be cool At the margin of the pool. In my hand the hand I hold Lies more daintily than gold; On your lips is all the praise I would barter for my lays, In your eyes I look to see Witness of my sovereignty. They that long for high estate Turn to look for love too late, Climbing on at last they find Love has long been left behind; Sweet, we do not envy these In our riverland of trees.

Seldom feet of mortals pass Here along the dewy grass; Only in the loneliest spot, Where the woodman enters not, Spirits of these groves and springs Make their nightly wanderings. Never now they walk at day Since the Satyrs fled away, Only when the fireflies gleam Up the winding wooded stream, You may hear low silver tones, Like the ripple on the stones, Asking some familiar star Where their olden lovers are. Listen, listen, up above All the branches sing of love! When the world is tired of May, When the springtide fades away, When the clouds draw over head, And the moon of love is dead, When the joy is no more new, Seek we other work to do! Only while the heart is young Let no other song be sung!

BY THE CRUCIFIX.

He tells his story with his young sad eyes, The rags are drooping from his sunburnt breast, He had sat down a little while to rest, Far off the country of his longing lies;

He sits there looking at his bare bruised feet And sees the rich man and the priest pass by, There where the crucifix is planted high On the grass bank outside the village street.

Beside him lies his little flageolet-- The children danced that morning when he played, Laughed loud to hear the music that he made;-- Now the day closes and he wanders yet.

Oh, if some one of all the folk who pass, Would turn and speak one word and hear him though, And help! It were so small a thing to do; And all they see him lying in the grass.

So the day ended, and the evening sun Cast the long shadows down; he turned and saw The crucifix blood-red, and in mute awe, He crossed himself, and shuddered, and went on.

And then, it seemed that the pale form above Moved slowly, lifting up the thorn-crowned head, And the drooped eyelids opened, and he said, “Oh, ye who make profession of your love,

“With voices echoing a hollow cry, My name is ever on your lips, and yet I wander wearily and ye forget, I am as nothing to you passers by,

“I had no heed of any shame or loss, And will ye leave me tired and homeless still Oh, call my name by any name ye will, But leave me not for ever on my cross!”