Ere I lose myself in the vastness and drowse myself with the peace, While I gaze on the light and beauty afar from the dim homes of men, May I still feel the heart-pang and pity, love-ties that I would not release; May the voices of sorrow appealing call me back to their succor again. Ere I storm with the tempest of power the thrones and dominions of old, Ere the ancient enchantment allure me to roam through the star-misty skies, I would go forth as one who has reaped well what harvest the earth may unfold; May my heart be o’erbrimmed with compassion; on my brow be the crown of the wise. I would go as the dove from the ark, sent forth with wishes and prayers, To return with the paradise blossoms that bloom in the Eden of light: When the deep star-chant of the seraphs I hear in the mystical airs, May I capture one tone of their joy for the sad ones discrowned in the night. Not alone, not alone would I go to my rest in the heart of the love: Were I tranced in the innermost beauty, the flame of its tenderest breath, I would still hear the cry of the fallen recalling me back from above, To go down to the side of the people who weep in the shadow of death. One of Mr. Russell’s poems suggests in its very first line a lyric from Shelley’s _Hellas_, and the two poems form an interesting contrast between the temperaments of the poet of sentimental Platonism and this later singer who adds to Shelley’s lyric vision a firmer stationing on the substance of earth. While Shelley began on a high note of joy that The world’s great age begins anew, The golden years return, ... but ends on the note of disenchantment: O, cease! must hate and death return? Cease! must men kill and die? Cease! Drain not to its dregs the urn Of bitter prophecy. The world is weary of the past; Oh, might it die or rest at last! —while Shelley thus descends, Mr. Russell in _The Twilight of Earth_ begins more or less where Shelley left off with: The wonder of the world is o’er, The magic from the sea is gone; There is no unimagined shore, No islet yet to venture on. The Sacred Hazel’s blooms are shed, The Nuts of Knowledge harvested. Oh, what is worth this lore of age If time shall never bring us back Our battle with the gods to wage, Reeling along the starry track. The battle rapture here goes by In warring upon things that die. Let be the tale of him whose love Was sighed between white Deidre’s breasts; It will not lift the heart above The sodden clay on which it rests. Love once had power the gods to bring All rapt on its wild wandering. But while