lassic calm
Or rich romantic colour. Bagdat's shrine
By sheeny Tigris, Syrian pool and palm,
Avilion's bowery hollows, Ida's peak,
The lily-laden Lotos land, the fields
Of amaranth! What may vagrant Fancy seek
More than thy rich song yields,
Of Orient odour, Faery wizardry,
Or soft Arcadian simplicity?

From all, far Faery Land, Romance's realm,
Green English homestead, cloud-crown'd Attic hill,
The Poet passes--whither? Not the helm
Of wounded ARTHUR, lit by light that fills
Avilion's fair horizons, gleamed more bright
Than does that leonine laurelled visage now,
Fronting with steadfast look that mystic Light.
Grave eye, and gracious brow
Turn from the evening bell, the earthly shore,
To face the Light that floods him evermore.

Farewell! How fitlier should a poet pass
Than thou from that dim chamber and the gleam
Of poor earth's purest radiance? Love, alas!
Of that strange scene must long in sorrow dream.
But we--we hear thy manful music still!
A royal requiem for a kingly soul!
No sadness of farewell! Away regret,
When greatness nears its goal!
We follow thee, in thought, through light, afar
Divinely piloted beyond the bar!

* * * * *

TO MY SWEETHEART.

["Those roses you bought and gave to me are marvels. They are
still alive."--_Her Letter_.]

[Illustration]

A Hothouse where some roses blew,
And, whilst the outer world was white,
The gentle roses softly grew
To fragrant visions of delight.

Some wretched florist owned them all,
And plucked them from their native bowers,
Then gaily showed them on his stall
To swell the ranks of "Fresh-Cut Flowers."

_Some_ went beside a bed of pain
Where influenza claimed its due;
They drooped and never smiled again,
The epidemic had them too.

A gay young gallant bought some buds,
And jauntily went out to dine
With other reckless sporting bloods,
Who talked of women, drank of wine;

But whilst they talked, and smoked, and drank,
And told tales not too sanctified.
Abashed the timid blossoms shrank,
Changed colour, faded, and then died.

Yet roses, too, I gave to you,
I saw you place them near your heart,
You wore them all the evening through,
You wore them when we came to part.

But now you write to me, my dear,
And marvel that they are not dea