"Who towards that gloomy strand Herald of my grief will be?

Ever floats the bark from land, Bearing phantoms ceaselessly.

"Closed those shadowy fields are ever Unto any blessed sight.

Since the Styx hath been a river, It hath borne no living wight.

"There are thousand stairs descending, But not one leads upward there.

To her tears no token lending, At the anxious mother's prayer."

IV.

Oh, my mother-in-law, Ceres, Cease thy cries, no longer mourn.

I will grant thee, what so dear is, I myself so much have borne.

Take thou comfort. We will fairly Thy child's ownership divide; And for six moons shall she yearly In the upper world abide.

Help thee through long summer hours In thy husbandry affairs; Binding up for thee the flowers, While a new straw-hat she wears.

She will dream when twilight pleasant Colors all the sky with rose; When by brooks some clownish peasant Sweetly on his sheep's pipe blows.

Not a harvest dance without her, She will frisk with Jack and Bess; Midst the geese and calves about her She will prove a lioness.

Hail, sweet rest! I breathe free, single, Here in Orcus far from strife, Punch with Lethe I will mingle, And forget I have a wife.

V.

At times thy glance appeareth to importune, As though thou didst some secret longing prove.

Alas, too well I know it,--thy misfortune A life frustrated, a frustrated love.

How sad thine eyes are! Yet have I no power To give thee back thy youth with pleasure rife; Incurably thy heart must ache each hour For love frustrated and frustrated life.

THE VALE OF TEARS.

The night wind through the crannies pipes, And in the garret lie Two wretched creatures on the straw, As gaunt as poverty.

And one poor creature speaks and says, "Embrace me with thine arm, And press thy mouth against my mouth, Thy breath will keep me warm."

The other starveling speaks and says, "When I look into thine eyes Pain, cold and hunger disappear, And all my miseries."

They kissed full oft, still more they wept, Clasped hands, sighed deep and fast; They often laughed, they even sang, And both were still at last.

With morning came the coroner, And brought a worthy leech, On either corpse to certify The cause of death of each.

The nipping weather, he affirmed, Had finished the deceased.

Their empty stomachs also caused, Or hastened death at last.

He added that when frost sets in 'Tis needful that the blood Be warmed with flannels; one should have, Moreover, wholesome food.

SOLOMON.

Dumb are the trumpets, cymbals, drums and shawms to-night, The angel shapes engirdled with the sword, About the royal tent keep watch and ward, Six thousand to the left, six thousand to the right.

They guard the king from evil dreams, from death.

Behold! a frown across his brow they view.

Then all at once, like glimmering flames steel-blue, Twelve thousand brandished swords leap from the sheath.

But back into their scabbards drop the swords Of the angelic host; the midnight pain Hath vanished, the king's brow is smooth again; And hark! the royal sleeper's murmured words:

"O Shulamite, the lord of all these lands am I, This empire is the heritage I bring, For I am Judah's king and Israel's king; But if thou love me not, I languish and I die."

MORPHINE.

Marked is the likeness 'twixt the beautiful And youthful brothers, albeit one appear Far paler than the other, more serene; Yea, I might almost say, far comelier Than his dear brother, who so lovingly Embraced me in his arms. How tender, soft Seemed then his smile, and how divine his glance!

No wonder that the wreath of poppy-flowers About his head brought comfort to my brow, And with its mystic fragrance soothed all pain From out my soul. But such delicious balm A little while could last. I can be cured Completely only when that other youth, The grave, pale brother, drops at last his torch.

Lo, sleep is good, better is death--in sooth The best of all were never to be born.

SONG.

Oft in galleries of art Thou hast seen a knight perchance, Eager for the wars to start, Well-equipped with shield and lance.

Him the frolic loves have found, Robbed him of his sword and spear, And with chains of flowers have bound Their unwilling chevalier.

Held by such sweet hindrances, Wreathed with bliss and pain, I stay, While my comrades in the press Wage the battle of the day.

SONG.

Night lay upon my eyelids, About my lips earth clave; With stony heart and forehead I lay within my grave.