Lost, lost, the man who mindeth the minstrelsy; Since still, in sandy, glittering pleasances, Cold, stony fruits, gem-like but quite in- Edible, flatter and wholly starve him. BEHOLD, AS GOBLINS DARK OF MIEN BEHOLD, as goblins dark of mien And portly tyrants dyed with crime Change, in the transformation scene, At Christmas, in the pantomime, Instanter, at the prompter’s cough, The fairy bonnets them, and they Throw their abhorred carbuncles off And blossom like the flowers in May. —So mankind, to angelic eyes, So, through the scenes of life below, In life’s ironical disguise, A travesty of man, ye go: But fear not: ere the curtain fall, Death in the transformation scene Steps forward from her pedestal, Apparent, as the fairy Queen; And coming, frees you in a trice From all your lendings—lust of fame, Ungainly virtue, ugly vice, Terror and tyranny and shame. So each, at last himself, for good In that dear country lays him down, At last beloved and understood And pure in feature and renown. STILL I LOVE TO RHYME STILL I love to rhyme, and still more, rhyming, to wander Far from the commoner way; Old-time trills and falls by the brook-side still do I ponder, Dreaming to-morrow to-day. Come here, come, revive me, Sun-God, teach me, Apollo, Measures descanted before; Since I ancient verses, I emulous follow, Prints in the marbles of yore. Still strange, strange, they sound in old-young raiment invested, Songs for the brain to forget— Young song-birds elate to grave old temples benested Piping and chirruping yet. Thoughts? No thought has yet unskilled attempted to flutter Trammelled so vilely in verse; He who writes but aims at fame and his bread and his butter, Won with a groan and a curse. LONG TIME I LAY IN LITTLE EASE LONG time I lay in little ease Where, placed by the Turanian, Marseilles, the many-masted, sees The blue Mediterranean. Now songful in the hour of sport, Now riotous for wages, She camps around her ancient port, As ancient of the ages. Algerian airs through all the place Unconquerably sally; Incomparable women pace The shadows of the alley. And high o’er dark and graving yard And where the sky is paler, The golden virgin of the guard Shines, beckoning the sailor. She hears the city roar on high, Thief, prostitute, and banker; She sees the masted vessels lie Immovably at anchor. She sees the snowy islets dot The sea’s immortal azure, And If, that castellated spot, Tower, turret, and embrasure. FLOWER GOD, GOD OF THE SPRING