Enchantments may arise To lure thy little feet, And charm thy wondering eyes;-- Yet;--wait for me, my sweet! Already Earth doth seem A phantom place to me, And thy far home of dream, Is my reality. So this is just "good night";-- Some stars will rise and wane, But sure as comes the light, I'll be with thee again!-- THE SEA The sea is just a cradle wide and deep,-- A cradle that the moon rocks to and fro; What peace they find who there fall fast asleep, What lovely dreams,--'Tis not for us to know. But God hath sent the angel of the sea To sing to them an endless lullaby; And that they may not dread night's mystery, He lights for them the candles of the sky. They are infolded by the silken waves, And wrapped in shining blue, and emerald green; They drift through opalescent ocean caves, That only God Himself hath ever seen. The great salt wind that no man holds in thrall, Touches them softly, as it passes by;-- I think the silver sea gulls know them all, And greet them with their lonely tender cry. For but a little little round of years, The sweet sun-sprinkled foam will be their bed, And they will slumber--hushed from any fears-- To waken, when the sea gives up her dead. COMRADES O mighty men of England Who sleep on land and sea, How swiftly you would join our ranks If Death could set you free! How gladly would they greet you, The young--the brave--the gay,-- If you came from your long-sealed graves, To march with them to-day. O you would know each other,-- And meet as friend, with friend,-- And fight, and smile, and jest at Death, Until the battles end! REQUIEM Weep for the dead; weep for the swift slain dead, November skies; Too few the tears that day and night are shed From women's eyes. Blow o'er them lightly with a soft caress, Wind of the sea, If you are tender they may miss love less-- Where e'er they be. Come, gentle moon, swing low your lantern light On reddened fields, And find the lonely harvest of the night That battle yields. Banish the darkness filled with quivering dread, Lest they should know Some last strange horror--even they--the dead-- Sweet moon, swing low. Fold them at dawn, dear earth, within your arms So safe and strong: Hold them asleep till they forget alarms, And woe and wrong. Master of Kings! If peace be bought with pain These paid the price; O show Thy tortured world that not in vain Is sacrifice! LAMENT Here in my garden where the tulips grow I walk alone; Dim are my eyes with tears, my feet are slow My heart is stone; Though all the lovely earth again for me New sweetness yields It matters not,--only the dead I see On battlefields.