But martyr mine the martyrdom of life;

:

Not brief, bright, glorious death.

It shall be borne.

The sun-starred day of death will dawn, at last,
Upon the night of life: my star will rise;

And the lost Pleiad, and the bridal star.

And I shall hear

the martyr hears it, hears

Most melody in heaven - the beckoning voice
Of Spirit and of Bride. And I shall learn
Another name than Imogen; for not

By that shall I be saved; and I may learn
That what He wills is peace at last, and far
Beyond our hopes, our dreams; and I may glance
On all the past, scarce seen, so far below,
With half a smile, or one half-clouded thought.
Vain dreams again! I dreamt of heaven before.
There was no heaven I saw, and did not see.
It was but mirrored: not yet "face to face."

I was not prescient-I my beauteous hopes
Half trusted but prophetic may have been
That strain, the first inspired by thee; that now
Echoes in this, the last; a farewell, flung

O'er broken harp, from heart superior still,
O'er all the visions it evokes or sees

As thee, fair girl, I see and thou art but
A passing vision, by the heart arrayed

In the heart's hues. It is but all in vain.
'Twas but a beauteous vision.

It was a beauteous vision

Fare thee well.

Fare thee well.

H

A Fragment.

THAT might be inspiration-once, with lips,
To touch thy golden strings, thou fairer Muse
Than thy Castalian sisters, thou that art
Embodied music, and the very life

Of Poesy made woman.

All poetry, all woman-heaven with earth
In thee so blended-sunlight locks and smiles,
And starlight night of eyes, and dewy lips,
Fresh as young Flora on a morn of May—

With all that's most of heaven-on-earth, what most Makes earth our all; with heaven, some clouds of carth,

Of sweetest, heavenliest hues, eclipsing heaven.

A Fragment.

I'd give thee gifts of God. I would not give
An earthly crown, nor wear. Ah, thou should'st

wear

The amaranth; thou should'st be glorified
And made immortal in the world of song.
Thou blessed one! thou shalt be glorified
And shine immortal in the world of God.

A Fragment.

To have won

That which had stamped me noble (so to be
Loved is to be ennobled) from such lips

As thine, Aspasian heroine-martyr, hers

Who acted Rome with dagger, theirs whose hearts Beat Marseillaise along the thundering streets,

Up to the scaffold, thence up to the stars!

Day dark, but glorious, when great thoughts strove fierce

For what they felt their own; quenched yet again,
In the red glare of vulgar glory, when

Fell France before the brass-and-clay false god,
Liberticide and liar, assassin half,

Half cheat,-fit founder of a new true race.