Part 11 (1/2)

Dear, when we part, at last, that sunset sky Shall not be touched with deeper hues than this; But we shall ride the lightning ere we die And seize our brief infinitude of bliss,

With time to spare for all that heaven can tell, While eyes meet eyes, and look their last farewell.

THE MATIN-SONG OF FRIAR TUCK

I.

If souls could sing to heaven's high King As blackbirds pipe on earth, How those delicious courts would ring With gusts of lovely mirth!

What white-robed throng could lift a song So mellow with righteous glee As this brown bird that all day long Delights my hawthorn tree.

Hark! That's the thrush With speckled breast From yon white bush Chaunting his best, _Te Deum! Te Deum laudamus!_

II.

If earthly dreams be touched with gleams Of Paradisal air, Some wings, perchance, of earth may glance Around our slumbers there; Some breaths of may might drift our way With scents of leaf and loam, Some whistling bird at dawn be heard From those old woods of home.

Hark! That's the thrush With speckled breast From yon white bush Chaunting his best, _Te Deum! Te Deum laudamus!_

III.

No King or priest shall mar my feast Where'er my soul may range.

I have no fear of heaven's good cheer Unless our Master change.

But when death's night is dying away, If I might choose my bliss, My love should say, at break of day, With her first waking kiss:- Hark! That's the thrush With speckled breast, From yon white bush Chaunting his best, _Te Deum! Te Deum laudamus!_

FIVE CRITICISMS

I.

(_On many recent novels by the conventional unconventionalists_.)

Old Pantaloon, lean-witted, dour and rich, After grim years of soul-destroying greed, Weds Columbine, that April-blooded witch ”Too young” to know that gold was not her need.

Then enters Pierrot, young, rebellious, warm, With well-lined purse, to teach the fine-souled wife That the old fool's gold should aid a world-reform (Confused with s.e.x). This wrecks the old fool's life.

O, there's no doubt that Pierrot was clever, Quick to break hearts and quench the dying flame; But why, for his own pride, does Pierrot never Choose his own mate, work for his own high aim,

Stand on his feet, and pay for his own tune?

Why scold, cheat, rob and kill poor Pantaloon?

II.

(_On a certain G.o.ddess, acclaimed as ”new” but known in Babylon._)

I saw the a.s.sembled artists of our day Waiting for light, for music and for song.

A woman stood before them, fresh as May And beautiful; but, in that modish throng,

None heeded her. They said, ”In our first youth Surely, long since, your hair was touched with grey.”