'Tis the bells of Shandon Of the River Lee. F. Mahony (Father Prout) FROM 'SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE' CCCXLVIII I thought once how Theocritus had sung Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years, Who each one in a gracious hand appears To bear a gift for mortals, old or young: And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware, So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair; And a voice said in mastery, while I strove, 'Guess now who holds thee?'-'Death,' I said. But there, The silver answer rang, CCCXLIX What can I give thee back, O liberal And princely giver, who hast brought the gold And purple of thine heart, unstained, untold, And laid them on the outside of the wall For such as I to take or leave withal, In unexpected largesse? am I cold, Ungrateful, that for these most manifold High gifts, I render nothing back at all? Not so; not cold,-but very poor instead. Ask God who knows. For frequent tears have run The colours from my life, and left so dead CCCL Yet love, mere love, is beautiful indeed I love thee... mark! . . . I love thee!... in thy sight With conscience of the new rays that proceed And what I feel, across the inferior features Of what I am, doth flash itself, and show How that great work of Love enhances Nature's. CCCLI If thou must love me, let it be for naught 'I love her for her smile... her look... her way Of speaking gently, . . . for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought A sense of pleasant ease on such a day'For these things in themselves, Belovéd, may Be changed, or change for thee, and love, so wrought, May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! CCCLII How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints,-I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. CCCLIII E. B. Browning A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT What was he doing, the great god Pan, Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, The limpid water turbidly ran, Ere he brought it out of the river. High on the shore sate the great god Pan, He cut it short, did the great god Pan (How tall it stood in the river!), Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, And notched the poor dry empty thing 'This is the way,' laughed the great god Pan (Laughed while he sate by the river), "The only way, since gods began To make sweet music, they could succeed.' Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan! Piercing sweet by the river! Blinding sweet, O great god Pan! The sun on the hill forgot to die, And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly Came back to dream on the river. Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, Making a poet out of a man: The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,— E. B. Browning CCCLIV I do not love thee!-no! I do not love thee! And yet when thou art absent I am sad; And envy even the bright blue sky above thee, Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad. I do not love thee !-yet, I know not why, Whate'er thou dost seems still well done, to me: And often in my solitude I sigh That those I do love are not more like thee! I do not love thee !-yet, when thou art gone, I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear) Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear. I do not love thee!-yet thy speaking eyes, With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue, Between me and the midnight heaven arise, Oftener than any eyes I ever knew. I know I do not love thee! yet, alas! Others will scarcely trust my candid heart; And oft I catch them smiling as they pass, Because they see me gazing where thou art. Carolina E. S. Norton CCCLV RUBÁIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYÁM OF I Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night 2 Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry, 'Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup 'Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry.' 3 And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before |