With all the mournful voices of the dirges, pour'd around the

coffin,

The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs

Where amid these you journey,

With the toiling, toiling bells' perpetual clang;
Here! coffin that slowly passes,

I give you my sprig of lilac.

I come presently

But a moment I linger

I understand you;

for the lustrous star has detained me;

The star, my departing comrade, holds and detains me.

O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved? And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has

gone?

And what shall my perfume be, for the grave of him I love ?

Sea winds, blown from east and west,

Blown from the eastern sea, and blown from the western sea, till there on the prairies meeting:

These, and with these, and the breath of my chant,

I perfume the grave of him I love.

WALT WHITMAN.

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN !

O CAPTAIN ! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up

you the bugle trills,

for you the flag is flung for For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths for you the shores acrowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck

You 've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and
done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won.

Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

But I, with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

WALT WHITMAN.

HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD

HOME they brought her warrior dead:

She nor swooned, nor uttered cry;

All her maidens, watching, said,
"She must weep or she will die."

Then they praised him, soft and low,
Called him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;

Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place,
Lightly to the warrior stept,
Took the face-cloth from the face;
Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years,

Set his child upon her knee,

Like summer tempest came her tears,
"Sweet my child, I live for thee."

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON (The Princess).

FAREWELL

THE same year calls, and one goes hence with another,
And men sit sad that were glad for their sweet songs' sake;
The same year beckons, and younger with elder brother
Takes mutely the cup from his hand that we all must take;
They pass ere the leaves be past or the snows be come,-
And the birds are loud, but the lips that outsung them are dumb.

Time takes them home that we loved-fair names and famousTo the soft, long sleep, to the broad, sweet bosom of death;

But the flower of their souls he shall take not away to shame us,
Nor the lips lack song forever, that now lack breath;
For with us shall the music and perfume that died not dwell,
Though the dead to our dead bid welcome, and we— farewell!
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

PART X

The Better Life

I have seen

A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract
Of inland ground, applying to his ear
The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell;
To which, in silence hushed, his very soul
Listened intensely; and his countenance soon
Brightened with joy; for from within were heard
Murmurings, whereby the monitor expressed
Mysterious union with its native sea.
Even such a shell the universe itself
Is to the ear of Faith; and there are times,
I doubt not, when to you it doth impart
Authentic tidings of invisible things;
Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power;
And central peace, subsisting at the heart
Of endless agitation. Here you stand,
Adore, and worship, when you know it not ;
Pious beyond the intention of your thought;
Devout above the meaning of your will.