She sang and I said to my heart "That song, That was sweet, so sweet i' the singing, Shall live with us and inspire us long, And thou, my heart, shalt be brave and strong For the sake of those words a-winging." The woman died and the song was still. (It was sweet, so sweet, the singing.) But ever I hear the same low trill, Of the song that shakes my heart with a thrill, And goes forever winging. LOVE DESPOILED As lone I sat one summer's day, With mien dejected, Love came by; His face distraught, his locks astray, So slow his gait, so sad his eye, I hailed him with a pitying cry: "Pray, Love, what has disturbed thee so?" Said I, amazed. "Thou seem'st bereft; And see thy quiver hanging low,-- What, not a single arrow left? Pray, who is guilty of this theft?" Poor Love looked in my face and cried: "No thief were ever yet so bold To rob my quiver at my side. But Time, who rules, gave ear to Gold, And all my goodly shafts are sold." THE LAPSE This poem must be done to-day; Then, I 'll e'en to it. I must not dream my time away,-- I 'm sure to rue it. The day is rather bright, I know The Muse will pardon My half-defection, if I go Into the garden. It must be better working there,-- I 'm sure it's sweeter: And something in the balmy air May clear my metre. [_In the Garden._] Ah this is noble, what a sky! What breezes blowing! The very clouds, I know not why, Call one to rowing. The stream will be a paradise To-day, I 'll warrant. I know the tide that's on the rise Will seem a torrent; I know just how the leafy boughs Are all a-quiver; I know how many skiffs and scows Are on the river. I think I 'll just go out awhile Before I write it; When Nature shows us such a smile, We should n't slight it. For Nature always makes desire By giving pleasure; And so 't will help me put more fire Into my measure. [_On the River._] The river's fine, I 'm glad I came, That poem 's teasing; But health is better far than fame, Though cheques are pleasing. I don't know what I did it for,-- This air 's a poppy. I 'm sorry for my editor,-- He 'll get no copy! THE WARRIOR'S PRAYER Long since, in sore distress, I heard one pray, "Lord, who prevailest with resistless might, Ever from war and strife keep me away, My battles fight!" I know not if I play the Pharisee, And if my brother after all be right; But mine shall be the warrior's plea to thee-- Strength for the fight. I do not ask that thou shalt front the fray, And drive the warring foeman from my sight; I only ask, O Lord, by night, by day, Strength for the fight! When foes upon me press, let me not quail Nor think to turn me into coward flight. I only ask, to make mine arms prevail, Strength for the fight!