And far too glad, in the even-glow,

To mix with the world he meant to take
Into his hand, he told you, so

And out of it his world to make,
To contract and to expand
As he shut or oped his hand.
Oh Waring, what's to really be?
A clear stage and a crowd to see!
Some Garrick, say, out shall not he
The heart of Hamlet's mystery pluck?
Or, where most unclean beasts are rife,
Some Junius - am I right? — shall tuck
His sleeve, and forth with flaying-knife!
Some Chatterton shall have the luck
Of calling Rowley into life!

Some one shall somehow run amuck
With this old world for want of strife
Sound asleep. Contrive, contrive
To rouse us, Waring! Who's alive?
Our men scarce seem in earnest now.
Distinguished names ! — but 't is, somehow,
As if they played at being names

Still more distinguished, like the games
Of children. Turn our sport to earnest
With a visage of the sternest!
Bring the real times back, confessed
Still better than our very best!

II.

'When I last saw Waring.

(How all turned to him who spoke ! You saw Waring? Truth or joke? In land-travel or sea-faring?)

'We were sailing by Triest Where a day or two we harbored:

A sunset was in the West,

When, looking over the vessel's side,
One of our company espied

A sudden speck to larboard.

And as a sea-duck flies and swims
At once, so came the light craft up,
With its sole lateen sail that trims
And turns (the water round its rims
Dancing, as round a sinking cup)
And by us like a fish it curled,
And drew itself up close beside,

Its great sail on the instant furled,

And o'er its thwarts a shrill voice cried,
(A neck as bronzed as a Lascar's)
"Buy wine of us, you English Brig?
Or fruit, tobacco and cigars?
A pilot for you to Triest?

Without one, look you ne'er so big,
They'll never let you up the bay!
We natives should know best."

I turned, and "just those fellows' way,"
Our captain said; "The 'long-shore thieves
Are laughing at us in their sleeves."

'In truth, the boy leaned laughing back;
And one, half-hidden by his side
Under the furled sail, soon I spied,
With great grass hat and kerchief black,
Who looked up with his kingly throat,
Said somewhat, while the other shook
His hair back from his eyes to look
Their longest at us; then the boat,
I know not how, turned sharply round,
Laying her whole side on the sea
As a leaping fish does; from the lee

Into the weather, cut somehow

Her sparkling path beneath our bow,

And so went off, as with a bound,
Into the rosy and golden half
Of the sky, to overtake the sun
And reach the shore, like the sea-calf
Its singing cave; yet I caught one
Glance ere away the boat quite passed,
And neither time nor toil could mar
Those features: so I saw the last

Of Waring!' - You? Oh, never star
Was lost here but it rose afar!

Look East, where whole new thousands are!
In Vishnu-land what Avatar ?

EVELYN HOPE.

BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead!
Sit and watch by her side an hour.
That is her book-shelf, this her bed;

She plucked that piece of geranium-flower,
Beginning to die too, in the glass;

Little has yet been changed, I think : The shutters are shut, no light may pass

Save two long rays through the hinge's chink.

Sixteen years old when she died!

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name;

It was not her time to love; beside,

Her life had many a hope and aim,
Duties enough and little cares,
And now was quiet, now astir,

Till God's hand beckoned unawares,

And the sweet white brow is all of her.

Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope?

What, your soul was pure and true, The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit, fire, and dew And, just because I was thrice as old,

And our paths in the world diverged so wide, Each was nought to each, must I be told? We were fellow mortals, nought beside?

No, indeed! for God above

Is great to grant, as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love :

I claim you still, for my own love's sake! Delayed it may be for more lives yet,

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few: Much is to learn, much to forget

Ere the time be come for taking you.

But the time will come, - at last it will,
When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say)
In the lower earth, in the years long still,
That body and soul so pure and gay?
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine,

And your mouth of your own geranium's red And what you would do with me, in fine,

In the new life come in the old one's stead.

I have lived (I shall say) so much since then,
Given up myself so many times,

Gained me the gains of various men,

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope,
Either I missed or itself missed me:
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!
What is the issue? let us see!

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while!

My heart seemed full as it could hold;

There was place and to spare for the frank young smile,

And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold.

So hush, I will give you this leaf to keep:

See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand!

There, that is our secret: go to sleep!

You will wake, and remember, and understand.

INCIDENT OF THE French CAMP.

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon :

A mile or so away

On a little mound, Napoleon

Stood on our storming-day;

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,

Legs wide, arms locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow
Oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mused, 'My plans
That soar, to earth may fall,

Let once my army-leader Lannes

Waver at yonder wall,' –

Out 'twixt the battery smokes there flew

A rider, bound on bound

Full-galloping; nor bridle drew

Until he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy,

And held himself erect

By just his horse's mane, a boy:

You hardly could suspect —