So teach ye me the wisest part,
My little doves! to move
Along the city ways, with heart

Assured by holy love,

And vocal with such songs as own
A fountain to the world unknown.
'Twas hard to sing by Babel's stream-
More hard in Babel's street!
But if the soulless creatures deem

Their music not unmeet
For sunless walls-let us begin,
Who wear immortal wings, within!
To me, fair memories belong

Of scenes that erst did bless;
For no regret-but present song,

And lasting thankfulnessAnd very soon to break away, Like types, in purer things than they!

I will have hopes that cannot fade, For flowers the valley yields—

I will have humble thoughts, instead
Of silent, dewy fields!

My spirit and my God shall be
My seaward hill, my boundless sea!

ROMAUNT OF MARGRET.

I PLANT a tree whose leaf
The cypress leaf will suit ;
And when its shade is o'er you laid,
Turn ye, and pluck the fruit!

Now, reach mine harp from off the wall, Where shines the sun aslant:

The sun may shine and we be cold-
Oh! hearken, loving hearts and bold,
Unto my wild romaunt,
Margret, Margret!

Sitteth the fair ladye

Close to the river side,
Which runneth on with a merry tone,

Her merry thoughts to guide.
It runneth through the trees,

It runneth by the hill ;Nathless, the ladye's thoughts have found A way more pleasant still.— Margret, Margret!

The night is in her hair,

And giveth shade to shade; And the pale moonlight on her forehead white, Like a spirit's hand, is laid :Her lips part with a smile,

Instead of speaking done— I ween she thinketh of a voice, Albeit uttering none !

Margret, Margret!

All little birds do sit

With heads beneath their wingsNature doth seem in a mystic dream, Apart from her living things. That dream by that ladyè

I ween is unpartook ;

For she looketh to the high cold stars, With a tender human look! Margret, Margret

The ladye's shadow lies Upon the running river,— It lieth no less, in its quietness,

For that which resteth never; Most like a trusting heart Upon a passing faith,Or as, upon the course of life,

The steadfast doom of death! Margret, Margret !

The ladye doth not move-
The ladye doth not dream-
Yet she seeth her shade no longer laid

In rest upon the stream!

It shaketh without wind

It parteth from the tide

It standeth upright, in the cleft moonlight

It sitteth at her side!

Margret, Margret !

Look in its face, ladyè,

And keep thee from thy swound! With a spirit bold thy pulses hold, And hear its voice's sound!

For so will sound thy voice,

When thy face is to the wall,And such will be thy face, ladyè,

When the maidens work thy pallMargret, Margret!

"Am I not like to thee?"—
The voice was calm and low-

And between each word there seeméd heard
The universe's flow!-

"The like may sway the like!

By which mysterious law, Mine eyes from thine, my lips from thine, The light and breath may draw, Margret, Margret!

"My lips do need thy breath, My lips do need thy smile,And my pale deep eyne, that light in thine

Which met the stars erewhile.

Yet go, with light and life

If that thou lovest one, In all the earth, who loveth thee More truly than the sun, Margret, Margret !"

Her cheek had waxed white
As cloud at fall of snow;
Then, like to one at set of sun,
It waxéd red also!-

For love's name maketh bold,
As if the loved were near:
And sighéd she the deep long sigh
Which cometh after fear.
Margret, Margret!
"Now, sooth, I fear thee not-
Shall never fear thee now!"
(And a noble sight was the sudden light

Which lit her lifted brow!) "Can earth be dry of streams,

Or hearts of love?"-she said; "Who doubteth love, can know not love,He is already dead!"

Margret, Margret!

"I have"-and here her lips Some word in pause did keep; And gave, the while, a quiet smile, As if they paused in sleep! "I have a brother dear,

A knight of knightly fame; I broider'd him a knightly scarf With letters of my name." Margret, Margret!

"I fed his gray goss-hawk,
I kissed his fierce bloodhound,

I sate at home when he might come,
And caught his horn's far sound:
him
sang
of eld,
songs
I pour'd him the red wine,

I

He looked from the cup, and said,
I love thee, sister mine!"
Margret, Margret!

IT trembled on the grass,
With a low, shadowy laughter!

Her face was on the ground-
None saw the agony !

But the men at sea did that night agree

They heard a drowning cry.
And, when the morning brake,
Fast roll'd the river's tide,
With the green trees waving overhead,
And a white corse lain beside.
Margret, Margret!
A knight's bloodhound and he

The funeral watch did keep-
With a thought o' the chase he stroked its face,

As it howl'd to see him weep.
A fair child kiss'd the dead,

But shrank before the cold;
And alone, yet proudly, in his hall
Did stand a baron old.
Margret, Margret!
Hang up my harp again-
I have no voice for song!
Not song, but wail-and mourners pale,
Not bards-to love belong!
Oh, failing human love!

Oh, light by darkness known! Oh, false, the while thou treadest earth! Oh, deaf, beneath the stone! Margret, Margret !

Nay, friends! no name but His,
Whose name as Love appears!
Look up to heaven, as God's forgiven,
And see it not for tears!
Yet see, with spirit-sight,

Th' eternal Friend undim,
Who died for love, and joins above
All friends who love in Him-
And with His piercéd hands may He
The guardian of your clasp'd ones be!—
Which prayer doth end my lay of thee,
Margret, Margret!

THE DESERTED GARDEN.

Since that I saw this gardine wasted.-SPENSER.

I MIND me in the days departed, How often, underneath the sun, With childish bounds I used to run To a garden long deserted.

The beds and walks were vanish'd quite; And, wheresoe'er had fallen the spade, The greenest grasses nature led, To sanctify her right.

I called it my wilderness, For no one enter'd there but I; The sheep look'd in, the grass t' espy, And passed ne'ertheless.

The trees were interwoven wild, And spread their boughs enough about To keep both sheep and shepherd out, But not a happy child.

Adventurous joy it was for me! I crept beneath the boughs, and found A circle smooth of mossy ground Beneath a poplar-tree.

Old garden rose-trees hedged it in, Bedropt with roses waxen-white, Well satisfied with dew and light, And careless to be seen.

Long years ago it might befall, When all the garden flowers were trim, The grave old gardener prided him

On these the most of all;

And lady stately overmuch, Who moved with a silken noise, Blush'd near them, dreaming of the voice That liken'd her to such !

And these, to make a diadem, She may have often pluck'd and twined,— Half-smiling as it came to mind,

That few would look at them.

Oh! little thought that lady proud, A child would watch her fair white rose, When buried lay her whiter brows,

And silk was changed for shroud !—