Here’s Villon, in morocco fine, (The Poet starved, in mud and snow,) Glatigny does not crave to dine, And René’s tears forget to flow. And here’s a work by Mrs. Crowe, With hosts of ghosts and bogies jailed in; Ah, all my ghosts have gone below— The many things I’ve tried and failed in! He’s touched, this mouldy Greek divine, The Princess D’Este’s hand of snow; And here the arms of D’Hoym shine, And there’s a tear-bestained Rousseau: Here’s Carlyle shrieking “woe on woe” (The first edition, this, he wailed in); I once believed in him—but oh, The many things I’ve tried and failed in! ENVOY. Prince, tastes may differ; mine and thine Quite other balances are scaled in; May you succeed, though I repine— “The many things I’ve tried and failed in!” BALLADE OF THE DREAM. Swift as sound of music fled When no more the organ sighs, Sped as all old days are sped, So your lips, love, and your eyes, So your gentle-voiced replies Mine one hour in sleep that seem, Rise and flit when slumber flies, _Following darkness like a dream_! Like the scent from roses red, Like the dawn from golden skies, Like the semblance of the dead From the living love that hies, Like the shifting shade that lies On the moonlight-silvered stream, So you rise when dreams arise, _Following darkness like a dream_! Could some spell, or sung or said, Could some kindly witch and wise, Lull for aye this dreaming head In a mist of memories, I would lie like him who lies Where the lights on Latmos gleam,— Wake not, find not Paradise _Following darkness like a dream_! ENVOY. Sleep, that giv’st what Life denies, Shadowy bounties and supreme, Bring the dearest face that flies _Following darkness like a dream_! BALLADE OF THE SOUTHERN CROSS. Fair islands of the silver fleece, Hoards of unsunned, uncounted gold, Whose havens are the haunts of Peace, Whose boys are in our quarrel bold; _Our_ bolt is shot, our tale is told, Our ship of state in storms may toss, But ye are young if we are old, Ye Islands of the Southern Cross! Ay, _we_ must dwindle and decrease, Such fates the ruthless years unfold; And yet we shall not wholly cease, We shall not perish unconsoled; Nay, still shall Freedom keep her hold Within the sea’s inviolate fosse, And boast her sons of English mould, Ye Islands of the Southern Cross! All empires tumble—Rome and Greece— Their swords are rust, their altars cold! For us, the Children of the Seas, Who ruled where’er the waves have rolled, For us, in Fortune’s books enscrolled, I read no runes of hopeless loss; Nor—while _ye_ last—our knell is tolled, Ye Islands of the Southern Cross! ENVOY.