Beside the idle summer sea And in the vacant summer days, Light Love came fluting down the ways, Where you were loitering with me.

Who has not welcomed, even as we, That jocund minstrel and his lays Beside the idle summer sea And in the vacant summer days?

We listened, we were fancy-free; And lo! in terror and amaze We stood alone--alone at gaze With an implacable memory Beside the idle summer sea.

I. M. R. G. C. B. 1878

The ways of Death are soothing and serene, And all the words of Death are grave and sweet.

From camp and church, the fireside and the street, She beckons forth--and strife and song have been.

A summer night descending cool and green And dark on daytime's dust and stress and heat, The ways of Death are soothing and serene, And all the words of Death are grave and sweet.

O glad and sorrowful, with triumphant mien And radiant faces look upon, and greet This last of all your lovers, and to meet Her kiss, the Comforter's, your spirit lean . . .

The ways of Death are soothing and serene.

We shall surely die: Must we needs grow old?

Grow old and cold, And we know not why?

O, the By-and-By, And the tale that's told!

We shall surely die: Must we needs grow old?

Grow old and sigh, Grudge and withhold, Resent and scold? . . .

Not you and I?

We shall surely die!

What is to come we know not. But we know That what has been was good--was good to show, Better to hide, and best of all to bear.

We are the masters of the days that were: We have lived, we have loved, we have suffered . . . even so.

Shall we not take the ebb who had the flow?

Life was our friend. Now, if it be our foe - Dear, though it spoil and break us!--need we care What is to come?

Let the great winds their worst and wildest blow, Or the gold weather round us mellow slow: We have fulfilled ourselves, and we can dare And we can conquer, though we may not share In the rich quiet of the afterglow What is to come.

ECHOES

Aqui este encerrada el alma del licenciado Pedro Garcias Gil Blas AU LECTEUR

I--TO MY MOTHER

Chiming a dream by the way With ocean's rapture and roar, I met a maiden to-day Walking alone on the sh.o.r.e: Walking in maiden wise, Modest and kind and fair, The freshness of spring in her eyes And the fulness of spring in her hair.

Cloud-shadow and scudding sun-burst Were swift on the floor of the sea, And a mad wind was romping its worst, But what was their magic to me?

Or the charm of the midsummer skies?

I only saw she was there, A dream of the sea in her eyes And the kiss of the sea in her hair.

I watched her vanish in s.p.a.ce; She came where I walked no more; But something had pa.s.sed of her grace To the spell of the wave and the sh.o.r.e; And now, as the glad stars rise, She comes to me, rosy and rare, The delight of the wind in her eyes And the hand of the wind in her hair.

1872

II

Life is bitter. All the faces of the years, Young and old, are grey with travail and with tears.

Must we only wake to toil, to tire, to weep?

In the sun, among the leaves, upon the flowers, Slumber stills to dreamy death the heavy hours . . .

Let me sleep.

Riches won but mock the old, unable years; Fame's a pearl that hides beneath a sea of tears; Love must wither, or must live alone and weep.

In the sunshine, through the leaves, across the flowers, While we slumber, death approaches though the hours! . . .

Let me sleep.

1872

III