There, where the sounds of war are shrill,
        And clarion shrieks, and battle roars,
        Once more set free, she leaps and soars
A Soul of flame, aspiring still!

Till last, in fairer shape she stands
        Where lotus-scented waters glide,
        A Theban Priestess, dusky-eyed,
Barefooted on the golden sands;

Or, prostrate, in the Temple-halls,
        When Spirits wake, and mortals sleep,
        She hears what mighty Voices sweep
Like winds along the columned walls.

A Princess then beneath the palms
        Which wave o’er Afric’s burning plains,
        The blood of Afric in thy veins,
A golden circlet on thine arms.

By sacred Ganges’ sultry tide,
        With dreamy gaze and clasped hands
        Thou walkst a Seeress in the lands
Where holy Buddha lived and died.

Anon, a sea-bleached mountain cave
        Makes shelter for thee, grave and wan,
        Thou solemn, solitary Man,
Who, nightly, by the star-lit wave

Invokest with illumined eyes
        The steadfast Lords who rule and wait
        Beyond the heavens and Time and fate,
Until the perfect Dawn shall rise,

And oracles, through ages dumb,
        Shall wake, and holy forms shall shine
        On mountain peaks in light divine,
When mortals bid God’s kingdom come

So turns the wheel of thy [keen] soul;
        From birth to birth her ruling stars,
        Swift Mercury and fiery Mars,
In ever changing orbits roll!

—­Paris, May, 1880

Fragment

A jarring note, a chord amiss—­
        The music’s sweeter after,
Like wrangling ended with a kiss,
        Or tears, with silver laughter.

The high gods have no joys like these,
        So sweet in human story;
No tempest rends their tranquil seas
        Beyond the sunset glory.

The whirling wheels of Time and Fate

Fragment*

I thank Thee, Lord, who hast through devious ways
        Led me to know Thy Praise,
        And to this Wildernesse
Hast brought me out, Thine Israel to blesse.

If I should faint with Thirst, or weary, sink,
        To these my Soule is Drink,
        To these the Majick Rod
Is Life, and mine is hid with Christ in God.

----------
* These are not properly dream-verses, having been suddenly presented 
to the waking vision one day in Paris while gazing at the bright 
sky. (Ed.)

Signs of the Times

Eyes of the dawning in heaven? 
Sparks from the opening of hell? 
Gleams from the altar-lamps seven? 
        Can you tell?

Is it the glare of a fire? 
Is it the breaking of day? 
Birth lights, or funeral pyre? 
        Who shall say?