Heroes, prophets, bards, and sages,
  Gods and men of climes and ages,
  Conquerors of lifelong sorrow,
    Torment that ye made your throne,
  Help, Oh! help in us the morrow,
  Full of triumph like your own.

J.S.

* * * * *

THE LUCKLESS LOVER

    “If aught on earth assault may bide
  Of ceaseless time and shifting tide,
    Beloved!  I swear to thee
  It is the truth of hearts that love,
  United in a world above
    The moment’s misty sea.

    “Oh! sweeter than the light of dawn,
  Than music in the woods withdrawn
    From clamours of the crowd,
  A new creation all our own,
  Unvisited by scoff or groan,
    Is faith in silence vow’d.

    “Two hearts by reason nobly sad,
  Nor rashly blind, nor lightly glad,
    Possess they not a bliss
  In their communion, felt and full,
  Beyond all custom’s deadly rule? 
    For life is only this.

    “In sighs we met, in sighs and sobs,
  Such grief as from the wretched robs
    The hope to heaven allied: 
  Great calm was ours, a strength severe,
  Though wet with many a scalding tear,
    When soul to soul replied.

  “Of thy dark eyes and gentle speech,
  The memory has a power to teach
    What know not many wise. 
  New stars may rise, the ancient fade,
  But not for us, my own pale maid,
    Be lost that pure surprise—­

  “The pure delight, the awful change,
  Chief miracle in wonder’s range,
    That binds the twain in one;
  While fear, foes, friends, and angry Fate,
  And all that wreck our mortal state
    Shall pass, like motes i’ the sun.

  “In his fine frame the throstle feels
  The music that his note reveals;
    And spite of shafts and nets,
  How better is the dying bird
  Than some dumb stone that ne’er was heard,
    That arrow never threats?

  “Disdaining man, the mountains rise;
  Is love less kindred with the skies,
    Or less their Maker’s will? 
  The strains, without a human cause,
  Flow on, unheeding lies and laws—­
    Will hearts for words be still?

  “What cliffs oppose, what oceans roll,
  What frowns o’ershade the weeping soul,
    Alas! were long to tell. 
  But something is there more than these,
  Than frowns and coldness, rocks and seas: 
    Until its hour—­farewell!”

  So sang the vassal bard by night,
  Beneath his high-born lady’s light
    That from her turret shone. 
  Next morning in the forest glade
  His corpse was found.  Her brother’s blade
    Had cut his bosom’s bone.

  What reap’d Lord Wilfrid by the stroke? 
  Before another morning broke,
    She, too, was with the blest: 
  And ’twas her last and only prayer,
  That her sweet limbs might slumber where
    The minstrel had his rest.