A rock; a ribbon of road; a ledge, With a pine tree clutching its crumbling edge.

A pine, that the lightning long since clave, Whose huge roots hollow a ragged cave.

A shout; a curse; and a face aghast; The human quarry is laired at last.

The human quarry with clay-clogged hair And eyes of terror who waits them there.

That glares and crouches and rising then Hurls clods and curses at dogs and men.

Until the blow of a gun-b.u.t.t lays Him stunned and bleeding upon his face.

A rope; a prayer; and an oak-tree near, And a score of hands to swing him clear.

A grim, black thing for the setting sun And the moon and the stars to gaze upon.

MY ROMANCE

If it so befalls that the midnight hovers In mist no moonlight breaks, The leagues of the years my spirit covers, And my self myself forsakes.

And I live in a land of stars and flowers, White cliffs by a silvery sea; And the pearly points of her opal towers From the mountains beckon me.

And I think that I know that I hear her calling From a cas.e.m.e.nt bathed with light-- Through music of waters in waters falling Mid palms from a mountain height.

And I feel that I think my love's awaited By the romance of her charms; That her feet are early and mine belated In a world that chains my arms.

But I break my chains and the rest is easy-- In the shadow of the rose, Snow-white, that blooms in her garden breezy, We meet and no one knows.

And we dream sweet dreams and kiss sweet kisses; The world--it may live or die!

The world that forgets; that never misses The life that has long gone by.

We speak old vows that have long been spoken; And weep a long-gone woe: For you must know our hearts were broken Hundreds of years ago.

A MAID WHO DIED OLD

Frail, shrunken face, so pinched and worn, That life has carved with care and doubt!

So weary waiting, night and morn, For that which never came about!

Pale lamp, so utterly forlorn, In which G.o.d's light at last is out.

Gray hair, that lies so thin and prim On either side the sunken brows!

And soldered eyes, so deep and dim, No word of man could now arouse!

And hollow hands, so virgin slim, Forever clasped in silent vows!

Poor b.r.e.a.s.t.s! that G.o.d designed for love, For baby lips to kiss and press; That never felt, yet dreamed thereof, The human touch, the child caress-- That lie like shriveled blooms above The heart's long-perished happiness.

O withered body, Nature gave For purposes of death and birth, That never knew, and could but crave Those things perhaps that make life worth,-- Rest now, alas! within the grave, Sad sh.e.l.l that served no end of Earth.

BALLAD OF LOW-LIE-DOWN

John-A-Dreams and Harum-Scarum Came a-riding into town: At the Sign o' the Jug-and-Jorum There they met with Low-lie-down.

Brave in shoes of Romany leather, Bodice blue and gypsy gown, And a cap of fur and feather, In the inn sat Low-lie-down.

Harum-Scarum kissed her lightly; Smiled into her eyes of brown: Clasped her waist and held her tightly, Laughing, "Love me, Low-lie-down!"

Then with many an oath and swagger, As a man of great renown, On the board he clapped his dagger, Called for sack and sat him down.

So a while they laughed together; Then he rose and with a frown Sighed, "While still 'tis pleasant weather, I must leave thee, Low-lie-down."

So away rode Harum-Scarum; With a song rode out of town; At the Sign o' the Jug-and-Jorum Weeping tarried Low-lie-down.

Then this John-a-dreams, in tatters, In his pocket ne'er a crown, Touched her, saying, "Wench, what matters!

Dry your eyes and, come, sit down.

"Here's my hand: we'll roam together, Far away from thorp and town.

Here's my heart,--for any weather,-- And my dreams, too, Low-lie-down.

"Some men call me dreamer, poet: Some men call me fool and clown-- What I am but you shall know it, Only you, sweet Low-lie-down."

For a little while she pondered: Smiled: then said, "Let care go drown!"

Up and kissed him.... Forth they wandered, John-a-dreams and Low-lie-down.

ROMANCE

Thus have I pictured her:--In Arden old A white-browed maiden with a falcon eye, Rose-flushed of face, with locks of wind-blown gold, Teaching her hawks to fly.

Or, 'mid her boar-hounds, panting with the heat, In huntsman green, sounding the hunt's wild prize, Plumed, dagger-belted, while beneath her feet The spear-pierced monster dies.

Or in Breceliand, on some high tower, Clad white in samite, last of her lost race, My soul beholds her, lovelier than a flower, Gazing with pensive face.

Or, robed in raiment of romantic lore, Like Oriana, dark of eye and hair, Riding through realms of legend evermore, And ever young and fair.

Or now like Bradamant, as brave as just, In complete steel, her pure face lit with scorn, At giant castles, dens of demon l.u.s.t, Winding her bugle-horn.

Another Una; and in chast.i.ty A second Britomart; in beauty far O'er her who led King Charles's chivalry And Paynim lands to war....

Now she, from Avalon's deep-dingled bowers,-- 'Mid which white stars and never-waning moons Make marriage; and dim lips of musk-mouthed flowers Sigh faint and fragrant tunes,--

Implores me follow; and, in shadowy shapes Of sunset, shows me,--mile on misty mile Of purple precipice,--all the haunted capes Of her enchanted isle.

Where, bowered in bosks and overgrown with vine, Upon a headland breasting violet seas, Her castle towers, like a dream divine, With stairs and galleries.