THE DYING SWAN.

_Host._

Tell me, O pilgrim! for my soul is stirred, On what far sh.o.r.e the willing winds prolong The melody of that imperial bird Which sings to chill-eared death its only song.

_Pilgrim._

Not mine Ogygian secrets to impart; But this they said where vague Meander shone, That only he who hath the poet's heart May hear the music of the dying swan.

THE PEAc.o.c.k.

O paragon of feathered grace, What charms thy neck enfold, Backed by that glorious...o...b..d s.p.a.ce Thick starred with eyes of gold.

Though Philomela soothe the night, 'Tis thine to paint the day; And each a splendour and delight Sheds on our earthly way.

So in thy beauty I rejoice, Nor flout thy tuneless cries; Peac.o.c.ks with Philomela's voice, Sing but in Paradise.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE HUNTER.

True Faith.

A royal boon for man's delight We deem this n.o.ble steed, So great in his enduring might Of courage, spring, and speed.

And as from coronet to crest I muse the creature o'er, There rises freely in my breast One happy emblem more.

'Tis Faith, the spirit-steed so strong, G.o.d's gift to our poor race, Which bears the soul of man along Through duty's arduous chase.

With reason's rein his fervour guide O soul, he'll carry thee Safe up the jagged mountain's side As on the level lea.

Alike to him the morn outspread, Or midnight on his way, The fields of light where he was bred Know neither night nor day.

The floods in vain lift up their voice, No slough makes him despond; His rider smiles at ocean's voice, And cries, "Beyond! beyond!"

He leaps with a sublime delight O'er aether's flaming zones, And cheers the rider with the sight Of Heaven and all its thrones.

Best at the last, he knows not death; And when the chase is o'er, Changes the simple name of "Faith"

To "Joy for evermore."

THE RACER.

While to the racer swift and strong, Inexorable fate a.s.signs the weight, the spur, the thong, The choking struggle sharp and long, The owner wins the plate.

Falls to the hind rasped down by toil, And prematurely old, The scanty dole his only spoil From lifelong battle with the soil, The master wins the gold.

Now comes a crying through the air, The peasant's righteous call; Lords of the land in liberal care Earth's profit with the workers share, And we'll be winners all.

THE SYBARITES.

Valour, not ornament, Wins the life tournament.

The silken Sybarites, we know, In their superfluous elegance, To measured music, swift or slow, Had trained their battle steeds to dance.

'Twas thus they fell before the flutes Of that sagacious Spartan crew, For with the caracoling brutes What could such dainty riders do?

O tutors! nerve your pupils' hearts With energy for strenuous deeds, Or all your sciences and arts May prove but Sybaritic steeds.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

FRANCIS PERRIER THE ENGRAVER.

With our needs change our deeds.

That coinless youth who left his home Was wealthy in an ardent soul, For, failing other ways to Rome, He led the blind and shared his dole.

But when the guidance reached its end, The sacred seat of art and fame, His skilful burin stood his friend, And won him competence and name.

He leads no more the poor and blind, His walk in life is altered quite; The rich he guides to art refined, And caters for the keenest sight.

ROME.