And those quaint old fragments that are left us Have their power in this,--the Carver brought Earnest care, and reverent patience, only Worthily to clothe some n.o.ble thought.

Shut then in the petals of the flowers, Round the stems of all the lilies twine, Hide beneath each bird's or angel's pinion, Some wise meaning or some thought divine.

Place in stony hands that pray for ever Tender words of peace, and strive to wind Round the leafy scrolls and fretted niches Some true, loving message to your kind.

Some will praise, some blame, and, soon forgetting, Come and go, nor even pause to gaze; Only now and then a pa.s.sing stranger Just may loiter with a word of praise.

But I think, when years have floated onward, And the stone is grey, and dim, and old, And the hand forgotten that has carved it, And the heart that dreamt it still and cold;

There may come some weary soul, o'erladen With perplexed struggle in his brain, Or, it may be, fretted with life's turmoil, Or made sore with some perpetual pain.

Then, I think those stony hands will open, And the gentle lilies overflow, With the blessing and the loving token That you hid there many years ago.

And the tendrils will unroll, and teach him How to solve the problem of his pain; And the birds' and angels' wings shake downward On his heart a sweet and tender rain.

While he marvels at his fancy, reading Meaning in that quaint and ancient scroll, Little guessing that the loving Carver Left a message for his weary soul.

VERSE: THREE ROSES

Just when the red June Roses blow She gave me one,--a year ago.

A Rose whose crimson breath revealed The secret that its heart concealed, And whose half shy, half tender grace Blushed back upon the giver's face.

A year ago--a year ago-- To hope was not to know.

Just when the red June Roses blow I plucked her one,--a month ago: Its half-blown crimson to eclipse, I laid it on her smiling lips; The balmy fragrance of the south Drew sweetness from her sweeter mouth.

Swiftly do golden hours creep,-- To hold is not to keep.

The red June Roses now are past, This very day I broke the last-- And now its perfumed breath is hid, With her, beneath a coffin-lid; There will its petals fall apart, And wither on her icy heart:- At three red Roses' cost My world was gained and lost.

VERSE: MY PICTURE GALLERY

I.

You write and think of me, my friend, with pity; While you are basking in the light of Rome, Shut up within the heart of this great city, Too busy and too poor to leave my home.

II.

You think my life debarred all rest or pleasure, Chained all day to my ledger and my pen; Too sickly even to use my little leisure To bear me from the strife and din of men.

III.

Well, it is true; yet, now the days are longer, At sunset I can lay my writing down, And slowly crawl (summer has made me stronger) Just to the nearest outskirt of the town.

IV.

There a wide Common, blackened though and dreary With factory smoke, spreads outward to the West; I lie down on the parched-up gra.s.s, if weary, Or lean against a broken wall to rest.

V.

So might a King, turning to Art's rich treasure, At evening, when the cares of state were done, Enter his royal gallery, drinking pleasure Slowly from each great picture, one by one.

VI.

Towards the West I turn my weary spirit, And watch my pictures: one each night is mine.

Earth and my soul, sick of day's toil, inherit A portion of that luminous peace divine.

VII.

There I have seen a sunset's crimson glory, Burn as if earth were one great Altar's blaze; Or, like the closing of a piteous story, Light up the misty world with dying rays.

VIII.

There I have seen the Clouds, in pomp and splendour, Their gold and purple banners all unfurl; There I have watched colours, more faint and tender Than pure and delicate tints upon a pearl.

IX.

Skies strewn with roses fading, fading slowly, While one star trembling watched the daylight die; Or deep in gloom a sunset, hidden wholly, Save through gold rents torn in a violet sky.

X.

Or parted clouds, as if asunder riven By some great angel--and beyond a s.p.a.ce Of far-off tranquil light; the gates of Heaven Will lead us grandly to as calm a place.

XI.

Or stern dark walls of cloudy mountain ranges Hid all the wonders that we knew must be; While, far on high, some little white clouds changes'

Revealed the glory they alone could see.

XII.

Or in wild wrath the affrighted clouds lay shattered, Like treasures of the lost Hesperides, All in a wealth of ruined splendour scattered, Save one strange light on distant silver seas.

XIII.

What land or time can claim the Master Painter, Whose art could teach him half such gorgeous dyes?

Or skill so rare, but purer hues and fainter Melt every evening in my western skies.

XIV.

So there I wait, until the shade has lengthened, And night's blue misty curtain floated down; Then, with my heart calmed, and my spirit strengthened, I crawl once more back to the sultry town.

XV.