Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,

Made him our pattern to live and to die! Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Shelley, were with us,

from their graves!

they watch

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;

I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,

Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit,

Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 12

'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew

near

Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;

At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;
At Düffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be;
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the
half-chime,
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So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!”

At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray:

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And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;

Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,

53 Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. And all I remember is friends flocking round

As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;

And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,

As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,

Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

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Nay but you, who do not love her,
Is she not pure gold, my mistress?
Holds earth aught speak truth

above her?

Aught like this tress, see, and this tress, And this last fairest tress of all,

So fair, see, ere I let it fall?

Because you spend your lives in praising;

To praise, you search the wide world over: Then why not witness, calmly gazing,

6

If earth holds aught speak truth — above her?

Above this tress, and this, I touch
But cannot praise, I love so much!

EVELYN HOPE

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!

Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed;

She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, Beginning to die too, in the glass;

12

Little has yet been changed, I think: The shutters are shut, no light may pass Save two long rays through the hinge's chink.

Sixteen years old when she died!

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name; It was not her time to love; beside, Her life had many a hope and aim, Duties enough and little cares,

MEETING AT NIGHT

The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,

And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!

PARTING AT MORNING

Round the cape of a sudden came the sea,
And the sun looked over the mountain's rim:
And straight was a path of gold for him,
And the need of a world of men for me.

12

And now was quiet, now astir, Till God's hand beckoned unawares, And the sweet white brow is all of her.

16

Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope?

What, your soul was pure and true,
The good stars met in your horoscope,
Made you of spirit, fire and dew
And, just because I was thrice as old
And our paths in the world diverged so
wide,

Each was naught to each, must I be told?
We were fellow mortals, naught beside?

No, indeed! for God above

Is great to grant, as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love:

I claim you still, for my own love's sake! Delayed it may be for more lives yet,

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few: Much is to learn, much to forget

Ere the time be come for taking you.

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