"Hearest thou not the echoing Sabbath sound? The hope that whispers in my trembling breast? Thy elbows on the table! gaze around; Glorify me with joy and be at rest. "To thy wife's eyes I'll bring their long-lost gleam, I'll bring back to thy child his strength and light, To him, life's fragile athlete I will seem Rare oil that firms his muscles for the fight. "I flow in man's heart as ambrosia flows; The grain the eternal Sower casts in the sod-- From our first loves the first fair verse arose, Flower-like aspiring to the heavens and God!" THE WINE OF LOVERS. Space rolls to-day her splendour round! Unbridled, spurless, without bound, Mount we upon the wings of wine For skies fantastic and divine! Let us, like angels tortured by Some wild delirious phantasy, Follow the far-off mirage born In the blue crystal of the morn. And gently balanced on the wing Of the wild whirlwind we will ride, Rejoicing with the joyous thing. My sister, floating side by side, Fly we unceasing whither gleams The distant heaven of my dreams. THE DEATH OF LOVERS. There shall be couches whence faint odours rise, Divans like sepulchres, deep and profound; Strange flowers that bloomed beneath diviner skies The death-bed of our love shall breathe around. And guarding their last embers till the end, Our hearts shall be the torches of the shrine, And their two leaping flames shall fade and blend In the twin mirrors of your soul and mine. And through the eve of rose and mystic blue A beam of love shall pass from me to you, Like a long sigh charged with a last farewell; And later still an angel, flinging wide The gates, shall bring to life with joyful spell The tarnished mirrors and the flames that died. THE DEATH OF THE POOR. Death is consoler and Death brings to life; The end of all, the solitary hope; We, drunk with Death's elixir, face the strife, Take heart, and mount till eve the weary slope. Across the storm, the hoar-frost, and the snow, Death on our dark horizon pulses clear; Death is the famous hostel we all know, Where we may rest and sleep and have good cheer. Death is an angel whose magnetic palms Bring dreams of ecstasy and slumberous calms To smooth the beds of naked men and poor. Death is the mystic granary of God; The poor man's purse; his fatherland of yore; The Gate that opens into heavens un trod! THE BENEDICTION. When by the high decree of powers supreme, The Poet came into this world outworn, She who had borne him, in a ghastly dream, Clenched blasphemous hands at God, and cried in scorn: