Even there I heard a strange, wild strain Sound high above the modern clamor, Above the cries of greed and gain,

The curbstone war, the auction's hammer;

And swift, on Music's misty ways,

It led, from all this strife for millions, To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians.

And as it stilled the multitude,

And yet more joyous rose, and shriller, I saw the minstrel, where he stood

At ease against a Doric pillar: One hand a droning organ played,

The other held a Pan's-pipe (fashioned Like those of old) to lips that made

The reeds give out that strain impassioned.

A one-eyed Cyclops halted long

In tattered cloak of army pattern, And Galatea joined the throng,

A blowsy, apple-vending slattern;
While old Silenus staggered out
From some new-fangled lunch-house
handy,

And bade the piper, with a shout,
To strike up Yankee Doodle Dandy!

A newsboy and a peanut-girl

Like little Fauns began to caper: His hair was all in tangled curl,

Her tawny legs were bare and taper; And still the gathering larger grew, And gave its pence and crowded nigher, While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew His pipe, and struck the gamut higher.

The best of days is foul enough

From this world's fare to flee;
And the saint that died o' Sabba' day,
With his grave turf yet to grow,
Is dead as the sinner brought to pray
A hundred years ago.

Where's he that died o' yesterday?
What better chance hath he
To clink the can and toss the pot
When this night's junkets be?
For the lad that died o' yesterday
Is just as dead — ho! ho!-

As the whoreson knave men laid away
A thousand years ago.

Not as we see

Earth, sky, insensate forms, ourselves,
Thou seest,
but vision-free
Thy fancy soars and delves,
Albeit no sounds to us relate
The wondrous things
Thy brave imaginings
Within their starry night create.

Pity thy unconfined
Clear spirit, whose enfranchised eyes
Use not their grosser sense?
Ah, no! thy bright intelligence
Hath its own Paradise,
A realm wherein to hear and see
Things hidden from our kind.
Not thou, not thou - 't is we
Are deaf, are dumb, are blind!
1888.

MORGAN

OH, what a set of Vagabundos,
Sons of Neptune, sons of Mars,
Raked from todos otros mundos,
Lascars, Gascons, Portsmouth tars,
Prison mate and dock-yard fellow,
Blades to Meg and Molly dear,
Off to capture Porto Bello

Sailed with Morgan the Buccaneer!

Out they voyaged from Port Royal
(Fathoms deep its ruins be,
Pier and convent, fortress loya,

Sunk beneath the gaping sea,;
On the Spaniard's beach they landed,
Dead to pity, void of fear,-
Round their blood-red flag embanded,
Led by Morgan the Buccaneer.

Dawn till dusk they stormed the castle,
Beat the gates and gratings down;
Then, with ruthless rout and wassail,
Night and day they sacked the town,
Staved the bins its cellars boasted,

Port and Lisbon, tier on tier, Quaffed to heart's content, and toasted Harry Morgan the Buccaneer:

Stripped the church and monastery,
Racked the prior for his gold,
With the traders' wives made merry,
Lipped the young and mocked the old,
Diced for hapless señoritas

(Sire and brother bound anear), — Juanas, Lolas, Manuelitas,

Cursing Morgan the Buccaneer.

Lust and rapine, flame and slaughter, Forayed with the Welshman grim: "Take my pesos, spare my daughter! "Ha! ha!" roared that devil's limb, "These shall jingle in our pouches,

She with us shall find good cheer." "Lash the graybeard till he crouches!" Shouted Morgan the Buccaneer.

Out again through reef and breaker, While the Spaniard moaned his fate, Back they voyaged to Jamaica,

Flush with doubloons, coins of eight, Crosses wrung from Popish varlets,

Jewels torn from arm and ear, Jesu! how the Jews and harlots

Welcomed Morgan the Buccaneer!

ON A GREAT MAN WHOSE MIND IS CLOUDING

THAT Sovereign thought obscured? That vision clear

Dimmed in the shadow of the sable wing, And fainter grown the fine interpreting Which as an oracle was ours to hear! Nay, but the Gods reclaim not from the seer Their gift, although he ceases here to sing,

And, like the antique sage, a covering Draws round his head, knowing what change is near.

SI JEUNESSE SAVAIT!

WHEN the veil from the eyes is lifted
The seer's head is gray;

When the sailor to shore has drifted
The sirens are far away.
Why must the clearer vision,

The wisdom of Life's late hour,
Come, as in Fate's derision,

When the hand has lost its power ? Is there a rarer being,

Is there a fairer sphere

Where the strong are not unseeing,
And the harvests are not sere;
Where, ere the seasons dwindle,

They yield their due return;
Where the lamps of knowledge kindle
While the flames of youth still burn?
O, for the young man's chances!
O, for the old man's will!
Those flee while this advances,
And the strong years cheat us still.

MORS BENEFICA

GIVE me to die unwitting of the day, And stricken in Life's brave heat, with senses clear:

Not swathed and couched until the lines appear

Of Death's wan mask upon this withering clay,

But as that old man eloquent made way From Earth, a nation's conclave hushed

anear;

Or as the chief whose fates, that he may hear
The victory, one glorious moment stay.
Or, if not thus, then with no cry in vain,