Collected Works (Vol. I)

TM* 38 SONGS OF THE SPIRIT Lay them together, breast to maiden breast, Limb linked with limb, and lips to pallid lips, So beautiful in death—the moth o’ th’ mind Tells the grief-numbéd senses ‘‘’Tis but sleep. See ! the pale glimmer of a ghostly arm Flashes a spot of light !”” Ah! weary day! "Tis but the flickering of the candle-light And the unmanning sorrow of the heart That lends the reins to fancy’s charioteer. Lay them together, let us leave them there! There comes a vision to my mortal eyes Of things immortal. swell Of some wild clarion through the dazzling night, Whose fairy zther suddenly illumes With silver meteors innumerable And golden showers of stars—lost worlds of thought And poets’ dreams, and jewels of virgin sighs. Hark ! the broad rings of sound go wavering on Eddying and rippling through the desart sky That now is peopled with the diamond wings That float through all the palaces of God. O now to join them rise the armies vast Of the lone spirits of the empty tomb, And there I see the lovers piteous Splendidly flash within the silver sphere Of light, and there I lose them at the last Most wonderfully passed within the veil Of Time ; caught up into the Infinite. Lay them together. And the hollow hill Shall echo me ‘‘ together,” and the sky, And the wide sea, and all the fragrant air, Shall linger in the tumult of the dawn. Lay them together. And thestill small voice Shall whisper ‘‘ Peace,” and in the evening “* Peace.” Hark! the growing THE VIOLET’S LOVE-STORY. Amonc the lilies of the sacred stream There grew a violet, like a maiden’s dream, And when the wind passed over them, it stirred Their white soft petals with its quiet word. The sun looked on them and their leaves were glad ; Only the purple blossom there, that had No kindred by the stream, let fall a tear, Half wishing for the autumn of the year. But when the summer came, the violet guessed By some slow dream that thrilled her gentle breast, That some sweet thing might come to her; she thought Through the long days of how her dream was wrought : She guessed it woven of the spider's thread, And coloured like the river’s changing bed Where polished pebbles shine; she guessed it frail And perfect, with pure wings, like silver pale. So there, behind the leaves and stems, her lids Grew deep with veins of love, and Bassarids? Racing the dim woods through, beheld her face, Whispered together, and desired the place. The grey was blushing in the Eastern sky When there drew near a child of poesy With full lips very tender, and grave eyes Where deep thoughts dwelt in some delicious wise. He Jooked upon the lilies, and a tear Dropped on their blossom ; but a little fear Came to the bosom of the violet Lest he see not, or see her, and forget. But he did see her, and drew close, and said: “© perfect passion of my soul, O dead Living desire, O sweet unspoken sin, Leave thou the lilies ; they are not thy kin. 1 Votaries of Bacchus, so called from the Bassara, or long mantle, which they wore.