So clear, so deep, the divine drear accents flow, No soul that listens may choose but thrill to know it, Pierced and wrung by the passionate music’s throe. For us there murmurs a nearer voice below it, Known once of ears that never again shall know, Now mute as the mouth which felt death’s wave o’erflow it Ages ago. A LANDSCAPE BY COURBET. LOW lies the mere beneath the moorside, still And glad of silence: down the wood sweeps clear To the utmost verge where fed with many a rill Low lies the mere. The wind speaks only summer: eye nor ear Sees aught at all of dark, hears aught of shrill, From sound or shadow felt or fancied here. Strange, as we praise the dead man’s might and skill, Strange that harsh thoughts should make such heavy cheer, While, clothed with peace by heaven’s most gentle will, Low lies the mere. A FLOWER-PIECE BY FANTIN. HEART’S ease or pansy, pleasure or thought, Which would the picture give us of these? Surely the heart that conceived it sought Heart’s ease. Surely by glad and divine degrees The heart impelling the hand that wrought Wrought comfort here for a soul’s disease. Deep flowers, with lustre and darkness fraught, From glass that gleams as the chill still seas Lean and lend for a heart distraught Heart’s ease. A NIGHT-PIECE BY MILLET. WIND and sea and cloud and cloud-forsaking Mirth of moonlight where the storm leaves free Heaven awhile, for all the wrath of waking Wind and sea. Bright with glad mad rapture, fierce with glee, Laughs the moon, borne on past cloud’s o’ertaking Fast, it seems, as wind or sail can flee. One blown sail beneath her, hardly making Forth, wild-winged for harbourage yet to be, Strives and leaps and pants beneath the breaking Wind and sea. ‘MARZO PAZZO.’ MAD March, with the wind in his wings wide-spread, Leaps from heaven, and the deep dawn’s arch Hails re-risen again from the dead Mad March. Soft small flames on rowan and larch Break forth as laughter on lips that said Nought till the pulse in them beat love’s march. But the heartbeat now in the lips rose-red Speaks life to the world, and the winds that parch Bring April forth as a bride to wed Mad March. DEAD LOVE. DEAD love, by treason slain, lies stark, White as a dead stark-stricken dove: None that pass by him pause to mark Dead love. His heart, that strained and yearned and strove As toward the sundawn strives the lark, Is cold as all the old joy thereof. Dead men, re-risen from dust, may hark When rings the trumpet blown above: It will not raise from out the dark Dead love. DISCORD. UNRECONCILED by life’s fleet years, that fled With changeful clang of pinions wide and wild, Though two great spirits had lived, and hence had sped Unreconciled;