I thought my spirit and my heart were tamed To deadness; dead the pangs that agonise. The old grief springs to choke me,--I am shamed Before that little ghost with eager eyes. O turn away, let her not see, not know! How should she bear it, how should understand? O hasten down the stairway, haste and go, And leave her dreaming in the silent land. _Lohengrin._ [Illustration: text decoration] Back to the mystic shore beyond the main The mystic craft has sped, and left no trace. Ah, nevermore may she behold his face, Nor touch his hand, nor hear his voice again! With hidden front she crouches; all in vain The proffered balm. A vessel nears the place; They bring her young, lost brother; see her strain The new-found nursling in a close embrace. God, we have lost Thee with much questioning. In vain we seek Thy trace by sea and land, And in Thine empty fanes where no men sing. What shall we do through all the weary days? Thus wail we and lament. Our eyes we raise, And, lo, our Brother with an outstretched hand! _Alma Mater._ _A haunted town thou art to me._ ANDREW LANG. To-day in Florence all the air Is soft with spring, with sunlight fair; In the tall street gay folks are met; Duomo and Tower gleam overhead, Like jewels in the city set, Fair-hued and many-faceted. Against the old grey stones are piled February violets, pale and sweet, Whose scent of earth in woodland wild Is wafted up and down the street. The city’s heart is glad; my own _Sits lightly on its bosom’s throne_. * * * * * Why is it that I see to-day, Imaged as clear as in a dream, A little city far away, A churlish sky, a sluggish stream, Tall clust’ring trees and gardens fair, Dark birds that circle in the air, Grey towers and fanes; on either hand, Stretches of wind-swept meadow-land? * * * * * Oh, who can sound the human breast? And this strange truth must be confessed; That city do I love the best Wherein my heart was heaviest! _In the Black Forest._ [Illustration: text decoration] I lay beneath the pine trees, And looked aloft, where, through The dusky, clustered tree-tops, Gleamed rent, gay rifts of blue. I shut my eyes, and a fancy Fluttered my sense around: “I lie here dead and buried, And this is churchyard ground. “I am at rest for ever; Ended the stress and strife.” Straight I fell to and sorrowed For the pitiful past life. Right wronged, and knowledge wasted; Wise labour spurned for ease; The sloth and the sin and the failure; Did I grow sad for these? They had made me sad so often; Not now they made me sad; My heart was full of sorrow For joy it never had.