IN Schnee der Alpen—so it runs To those divine accords—and here We dwell in Alpine snows and suns, A motley crew, for half the year: A motley crew, we dwell to taste— A shivering band in hope and fear— That sun upon the snowy waste, That Alpine ether cold and clear. Up from the laboured plains, and up From low sea-levels, we arise To drink of that diviner cup The rarer air, the clearer skies; For, as the great, old, godly King From mankind’s turbid valley cries, So all we mountain-lovers sing: I to the hills will lift mine eyes. The bells that ring, the peaks that climb, The frozen snow’s unbroken curd Might yet revindicate in rhyme The pauseless stream, the absent bird. In vain—for to the deeps of life You, lady, you my heart have stirred; And since you say you love my life, Be sure I love you for the word. Of kindness, here I nothing say— Such loveless kindnesses there are In that grimacing, common way, That old, unhonoured social war. Love but my dog and love my love, Adore with me a common star— I value not the rest above The ashes of a bad cigar. TO MISS CORNISH THEY tell me, lady, that to-day On that unknown Australian strand— Some time ago, so far away— Another lady joined the band. She joined the company of those Lovelily dowered, nobly planned, Who, smiling, still forgive their foes And keep their friends in close command. She, lady, as I learn, was one Among the many rarely good; And destined still to be a sun Through every dark and rainy mood:— She, as they told me, far had come, By sea and land, o’er many a rood:— Admired by all, beloved by some, She was yourself, I understood. But, compliment apart and free From all constraint of verses, may Goodness and honour, grace and glee, Attend you ever on your way— Up to the measure of your will, Beyond all power of mine to say— As she and I desire you still, Miss Cornish, on your natal day. TALES OF ARABIA YES, friend, I own these tales of Arabia Smile not, as smiled their flawless originals, Age-old but yet untamed, for ages Pass and the magic is undiminished. Thus, friend, the tales of the old Camaralzaman, Ayoub, the Slave of Love, or the Calendars, Blind-eyed and ill-starred royal scions, Charm us in age as they charmed in childhood. Fair ones, beyond all numerability, Beam from the palace, beam on humanity, Bright-eyed, in truth, yet soul-less houris Offering pleasure and only pleasure. Thus they, the venal Muses Arabian, Unlike, indeed, the nobler divinities, Greek Gods or old time-honoured muses, Easily proffer unloved caresses.