He only saw her bosom sweet, Her golden fleece of hair, And he fell down before her feet Because she was so fair.

She stooped and raised him from the floor And held him in her arms; She said: "He would have waked no more For any of my charms.

"You only could p.r.o.nounce the spell Would set his spirit free; And you have sold your soul to h.e.l.l And wakened him--for me!

"I hold him now by my blue eyes And by my yellow hair, He never will miss Paradise, Because I am so fair."

The wife looked back, looked back to see The golden-curtained place, Her lord's head on the witch's knee, Her gold hair on his face.

"I would my soul once more were mine, Then G.o.d my prayer would hear And slay my soul in place of thine Because thou art so dear!"

IN MEMORIAM

PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.

When you were tired and went away, I said, amid my new heart-ache: "When I catch breath from pain some day, I will teach grief a worthier way, And make a great song for his sake!"

Yet there is silence. O my friend, You gave me love such years ago-- A child who could not comprehend Its worth, yet kept it to the end-- How can I sing when you lie low?

Not always silence. O my dear, Not when the empty heart and hand Reach out for you, who are not near.

If you could see, if you could hear, I think that you would understand.

The grief that can get leave to run In channels smooth of tender song Wins solace mine has never won.

I have left all my work undone, And only dragged my grief along.

Many who loved you many years (Not more than I shall always do), Will breathe their songs in your dead ears; G.o.d help them if they weep such tears As I, who have no song for you.

You would forgive me, if you knew!

Silence is all I have to bring (Where tears are many, words are few); I have but tears to bring to you, For, since you died, I cannot sing!

RONDEAU.

TO AUSTIN DOBSON.

Your dainty Muse her form arrays In soft brocades of bygone days.

She walks old gardens where the dews Gem sundials and trim-cut yews And tremble on the tulip's blaze.

The magic scent her charm conveys Which lives on when the rose decays.

She had her portrait done by Greuze-- Your dainty Muse!

Mine's hardier--walks life's muddy ways Barefooted; preaches, sometimes prays, Is modern, is advanced, has views; Goes in for lectures, reads the news, And sends her homespun verse to praise Your dainty Muse!

RONDEAU.

TO W. E. HENLEY.

Dream and delight had pa.s.sed away, Their springs dried by the dusty day, And sordid fetters bound me tight, Forged for poor song by money-might; I writhed, and could not get away.

There might have been no flowering may In all the world--life looked so gray With dust of railways, choking quite Dream and delight.

When, lo! your white book came my way, With scent of honey-buds and hay, Starshine and day-dawns pure and bright, The rose blood-red, the may moon-white.

I owe you--would I could repay-- Dream and delight.

TO WALTER SICKERT.

(IN RETURN FOR A SIGHT OF HIS PICTURE "RED CLOVER".)

There is a country far away from here-- A world of dreams--a fair enchanted land-- Where woods bewitched and fairy forests stand, And all the seasons rhyme through all the year.

The greenest meadows, deepest skies, are there; There grows the rose of dreams, that never dies; And there men's heads and hands and hearts and eyes Are never, as here, too tired to find them fair.

Thither, when life becomes too hard to bear, The poet and the painter steal away To watch those glories of the night and day Which here the days and nights so seldom wear.

In that brave land I, too, have part and lot.

Dim woods, lush meadows, little red-roofed towns, Walled flowery gardens, wide gray moors and downs; Sedge, meadow-sweet, and wet forget-me-not;

The Norman church, with whispering elm trees round; A certain wood where earliest violets grow; One wide still marsh where hidden waters flow; The cottage porch with honey-buds enwound--

These are my portion of enchanted ground, To these the years add somewhat in their flight; Some wood or field, deep-dyed in heart's delight, Becomes my own--treasure to her who found.

To my dream fields your art adds one field more, A field of red, red clover, blossoming, Where the sun shines, and where more skylarks sing Than ever in any field of mine before.

OLD AGE.

Between the midnight and the morn When wake the weary heart and head, Troops of gray ghosts from lands forlorn Keep tryst about my sleepless bed.

I hear their cold, thin voices say: "Your youth is dying; by-and-by All that makes up your life to-day, Withered by age, will shrink and die!"

Will it be so? Will age slay all The dreams of love and hope and faith-- Put out the sun beyond recall, And lap us in a living death?