SAINT CHARLES

’"Saint Charles,” said Thackeray to me, thirty years ago, putting one of
Charles Lamb’s letters to his forehead.’—­LETTERS OF EDWARD FITZGERALD.

Saint Charles! ah yes, let other men
Love Elia for his antic pen,
And watch with dilettante eyes
His page for every quaint surprise,
Curious of caviare phrase. 
Yea; these who will not also praise? 
We surely must, but which is more
The motley that his sorrow wore,
Or the great heart whose valorous beat
Upheld his brave unfaltering feet
Along the narrow path he chose,
And followed faithful to the close?

Yea, Elia, thank thee for thy wit,
How poor our laughter, lacking it! 
For all thy gillyflowers of speech
Gramercy, Elia; but most rich
Are we, most holpen, when we meet
Thee and thy Bridget in the street,
Upon that tearful errand set—­
So often trod, so patient yet!

GOOD-NIGHT

(AFTER THE NORWEGIAN OF ROSENCRANTZ JOHNSEN)

Midnight, and through the blind the moonlight stealing
  On silver feet across the sleeping room,
Ah, moonlight, what is this thou art revealing—­
  Her breast, a great sweet lily in the gloom.

It is their bed, white little isle of bliss
  In the dark wilderness of midnight sea,—­
Hush! ’tis their hearts still beating from the kiss,
  The warm dark kiss that only night may see.

Their cheeks still burn, they close and nestle yet,
  Ere, with faint breath, they falter out good-night,
Her hand in his upon the coverlet
  Lies in the silver pathway of the light.

(LILLEHAMMER, August 22, 1892.)

BEATRICE

(FOR THE BEATRICE CELEBRATION, 1890)

Nine mystic revolutions of the spheres
  Since Dante’s birth, and lo! a star new-born
  Shining in heaven:  and like a lark at morn
Springing to meet it, straight in all men’s ears,
A strange new song, which through the listening years
  Grew deep as lonely sobbing from the thorn
  Rising at eve, shot through with bitter scorn,
Full-throated with the ecstasy of tears.

Long since that star arose, that song upsprang,
  That shine and sing in heaven above us yet;
    Since thy white childhood, glorious Beatrice,
    Dawned like a blessed angel upon his: 
  Thy star it was that did his song beget,
Star shining for us still because he sang.

A CHILD’S EVENSONG

The sun is weary, for he ran
  So far and fast to-day;
The birds are weary, for who sang
  So many songs as they? 
The bees and butterflies at last
  Are tired out, for just think too
How many gardens through the day
  Their little wings have fluttered through.