And at her cas.e.m.e.nt, Circe-beautiful, Above the surgeless reaches of the deep, She sits, while, in her gardens, fountains lull The perfumed wind asleep.

Or, round her brow a diadem of spars, She leans and hearkens, from her raven height, The nightingales that, choiring to the stars, Take with wild song the night.

Or, where the moon is mirrored in the waves, To mark, deep down, the Sea King's city rolled, Wrought of huge sh.e.l.ls and labyrinthine caves, Ribbed pale with pearl and gold.

There doth she wait forever; and the kings Of all the world have wooed her: but she cares For none but him, the Love, that dreams and sings, That sings and dreams and dares.

AMADIS AND ORIANA

From "Beltenebros at Miraflores"

O sunset, from the springs of stars Draw down thy cataracts of gold; And belt their streams with burning bars Of ruby on which flame is rolled: Drench dingles with laburnum light; Drown every vale in violet blaze: Rain rose-light down; and, poppy-bright, Die downward o'er the hills of haze, And bring at last the stars of night!

The stars and moon! that silver world, Which, like a spirit, faces west, Her foam-white feet with light empearled, Bearing white flame within her breast: Earth's sister sphere of fire and snow, Who shows to Earth her heart's pale heat, And bids her mark its pulses glow, And hear their crystal currents beat With beauty, lighting all below.

O cricket, with thy elfin pipe, That tinkles in the gra.s.s and grain; And dove-pale buds, that, dropping, stripe The glen's blue night, and smell of rain; O nightingale, that so dost wail On yonder blossoming branch of snow, Thrill, fill the wild deer-haunted dale, Where Oriana, walking slow, Comes, thro' the moonlight, dreamy pale.

She comes to meet me!--Earth and air Grow radiant with another light.

In her dark eyes and her dark hair Are all the stars and all the night: She comes! I clasp her!--and it is As if no grief had ever been.-- In all the world for us who kiss There are no other women or men But Oriana and Amadis.

THE ROSICRUCIAN

I

The tripod flared with a purple spark, And the mist hung emerald in the dark: Now he stooped to the lilac flame Over the glare of the amber embers, Thrice to utter no earthly name; Thrice, like a mind that half remembers; Bathing his face in the magic mist Where the brilliance burned like an amethyst.

II

"Sylph, whose soul was born of mine, Born of the love that made me thine, Once more flash on my eyes! Again Be the loved caresses taken!

Lip to lip let our forms remain!-- Here in the circle sense, awaken!

Ere spirit meet spirit, the flesh laid by, Let me touch thee, and let me die."

III

Sunset heavens may burn, but never Know such splendor! There bloomed an ever Opaline orb, where the sylphid rose A shape of luminous white; diviner White than the essence of light that sows The moons and suns through s.p.a.ce; and finer Than radiance born of a shooting-star, Or the wild Aurora that streams afar.

IV

"Look on the face of the soul to whom Thou givest thy soul like added perfume!

Thou, who heard'st me, who long had prayed, Waiting alone at morning's portal!-- Thus on thy lips let my lips be laid, Love, who hast made me all immortal!

Give me thine arms now! Come and rest Weariness out on my beaming breast!"

V

Was it her soul? or the sapphire fire That sang like the note of a seraph's lyre?

Out of her mouth there fell no word-- She spake with her soul, as a flower speaketh.

Fragrant messages none hath heard, Which the sense divines when the spirit seeketh....

And he seemed alone in a place so dim That the spirit's face, who was gazing at him, For its burning eyes he could not see: Then he knew he had died; that she and he Were one; and he saw that this was she.

THE AGE OF GOLD

The clouds that tower in storm, that beat Arterial thunder in their veins; The wildflowers lifting, shyly sweet, Their perfect faces from the plains,-- All high, all lowly things of Earth For no vague end have had their birth.

Low strips of mist that mesh the moon Above the foaming waterfall; And mountains, that G.o.d's hand hath hewn, And forests, where the great winds call,-- Within the grasp of such as see Are parts of a conspiracy;

To seize the soul with beauty; hold The heart with love: and thus fulfill Within ourselves the Age of Gold, That never died, and never will,-- As long as one true nature feels The wonders that the world reveals.

BEAUTY AND ART

The G.o.ds are dead; but still for me Lives on in wildwood brook and tree Each myth, each old divinity.

For me still laughs among the rocks The Naiad; and the Dryad's locks Drop perfume on the wildflower flocks.

The Satyr's hoof still prints the loam; And, whiter than the wind-blown foam, The Oread haunts her mountain home.

To him, whose mind is fain to dwell With loveliness no time can quell, All things are real, imperishable.

To him--whatever facts may say-- Who sees the soul beneath the clay, Is proof of a diviner day.

The very stars and flowers preach A gospel old as G.o.d, and teach Philosophy a child may reach;

That cannot die; that shall not cease; That lives through idealities Of Beauty, ev'n as Rome and Greece.

That lifts the soul above the clod, And, working out some period Of art, is part and proof of G.o.d.

THE SEA SPIRIT

Ah me! I shall not waken soon From dreams of such divinity!

A spirit singing 'neath the moon To me.

Wild sea-spray driven of the storm Is not so wildly white as she, Who beckoned with a foam-white arm To me.

With eyes dark green, and golden-green Long locks that rippled drippingly, Out of the green wave she did lean To me.

And sang; till Earth and Heaven seemed A far, forgotten memory, And more than Heaven in her who gleamed On me.

Sleep, sweeter than love's face or home; And death's immutability; And music of the plangent foam, For me!