of St. Bartholomew, 1862. 

  

       A SKETCH AFTER BRANTÔME     

      The door hath closed behind the sighing priest, The last absolving Latin duly said, And night, barred slowly backward from the East, Lets in the dawn to mock a sleepless bed; The bed of one who yester even took From scented aumbries store of silk and lace, From caskets beads and rings, for one last look, One look, which left the teardrops on her face; A lady, who hath loved the world, the court, Loved youth and splendour, loved her own sweet soul, And meekly stoops to learn that life is short, Dame Nature's pitiful gift, a beggar's dole. Sweet life, ah! let her live what yet remains. Call, quickly call, the page who bears the lute; Bid him attune to descant of sad strains The lily voice we thought for ever mute. The sorrowing minstrel at the casement stands And bends before the sun that gilds his wires, And prays a blessing on his faltering hands, That they may serve his lady's last desires.       "Play something old and soft, a song I knew; Play La défaite des Suisses," Then pearly notes Come dropping one by one, and with the dew Down on the breath of morning music floats. He played as far as tout est perdu and wept.      "Tout est perdu again, once more," she sighed; And on, still softer on, the music crept, And softly, at the pause, the listener died. 1862. 

  

       ON LIVERMEAD SANDS     

      For waste of scheme and toil we grieve, For snowflakes on the wave we sigh, For writings on the sand that leave Naught for to-morrow's passer-by. Waste, waste; each knoweth his own worth, And would be something ere he sink To silence, ere he mix with earth, And part with love, and cease to think. Shall I then comfort thee and me, My neighbour, preaching thus of waste? Count yonder planet fragments; see, The meteors into darkness haste. Lo! myriad germs at random float, Fall on no fostering home, and die Back to mere elements; every mote Was framed for life as thou, as I. For ages over soulless eyes, Ere man was born, the heavens in vain Dipt clouds in dawn and sunset dyes Unheeded, and shall we complain? Aye, Nature plays that wanton game And Nature's hierophants may smile, Contented with their lore; no blame To rhymers if they groan meanwhile.   

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