"And, if our robber lords would rob us still
With the foul hoard of beasts without a soul,
They may find leprous hands to work their will,
But, for their ships, where will they find the coal?"

"Help them!" the voices cry. They help them. Here,
Resolute, stern, menacing, hark the sound!
Look, 'tis the simple fearlessness of fear--
Dark faces and deep voices all around.

TO HIS LOVE.

"Teach me, love, to be true;
Teach me, love, to love;
Teach me to be pure like you.
It will be more than enough!

"Ah, and in days to come,
Give me, my seraph, too,
A son nobler than I,
A daughter true like you:

"A son to battle the wrong,
To seek and strive for the right;
A beautiful daughter of song,
To point us on to the light!"

HER POEM:
"MY BABY GIRL, THAT WAS BORN AND DIED ON THE SAME DAY."

"Ah, with torn heart I see them still,
Wee unused clothes and empty cot.
Though glad my love has missed the ill
That falls to woman's lot.

"No tangled paths for her to tread
Throughout the coming changeful years;
No desperate weird to dree and dread;
No bitter lonely tears!

"No woman's piercing crown of thorns
Will press my aching baby's brow;
No starless nights, no sunless morns,
Will ever greet her now.

"The clothes that I had wrought with care
Through weary hours for love's sweet sake
Are laid aside, and with them there
A heart that seemed to break."

TO HENRY GEORGE IN AMERICA.

Not for the thought that burns on keen and clear,
Heat that the heat has turned from red to white,
The passion of the lone remembering night
One with the patience day must see and hear--
Not for the shafts the lying foemen fear,
Shot from the soul's intense self-centring light--
But for the heart of love divine and bright,
We praise you, worker, thinker, poet, seer!
Man of the People,--faithful in all parts,
The veins' last drop, the brain's last flickering dole,
You on whose forehead beams the aureole
That hope and "certain hope" alone imparts--
Us have you given your perfect heart and soul;
Wherefore receive as yours our souls and hearts!

"ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE."

Shrieks out of smoke, a flame of dung-straw fire
That is not quenched but hath for only fruit
What