XX.

Because, whatever virtue dwells
In genial skies, warm oracles

For gardens brightly springing,

The flower which grew beneath your eyes, Beloved friends, to mine supplies

A beauty worthier singing!

THE MASK.

I.

I HAVE a smiling face, she said,
I have a jest for all I meet,

I have a garland for my head

And all its flowers are sweet,

--

And so you call me gay, she said.

II.

Grief taught to me this smile, she said,
And Wrong did teach this jesting bold;
These flowers were plucked from garden-bed
While a death-chime was tolled:
And what now will you say?—she said

III.

Behind no prison-grate, she said,

Which slurs the sunshine half a mile,

Live captives so uncomforted

As souls behind a smile.

God's pity let us pray, she said.

IV.

I know my face is bright, she said,-
Such brightness dying suns diffuse :
I bear upon my forehead shed

The sign of what I lose,
The ending of my day, she said.

V.

If I dared leave this smile, she said,
And take a moan upon my mouth,
And tie a cypress round my head,
And let my tears run smooth,
It were the happier way, she said.

VI.

And since that must not be, she said,
I fain your bitter world would leave.
How calmly, calmly, smile the Dead,
Who do not, therefore grieve!
The yea of Heaven is yea, she said.

VII.

But in your bitter world, she said,

Face-joy's a costly mask to wear; "Tis bought with pangs long nourishëd, And rounded to despair:

Grief's earnest makes life's play, she said.

VIII.

Ye weep for those who weep? she said—
Ah fools! I bid you pass them by.
Go, weep for those whose hearts have bled
What time their eyes were dry.

Whom sadder can I say? she said.

CALLS ON THE HEART.

I.

FREE Heart, that singest to-day
Like a bird on the first green spray,

Wilt thou go forth to the world

Where the hawk hath his wing unfurled
To follow, perhaps, thy way ?
Where the tamer thine own will bind,
And, to make thee sing, will blind,

While the little hip grows for the free behind?
Heart, wilt thou go?

– No, no!

'Free hearts are better so.'

II.

The world, thou hast heard it told,
Has counted its robber-gold,

And the pieces stick to the hand;

The world goes riding it fair and grand,
While the truth is bought and sold;