In his hand the woodman's hatchet, By his side the knife and twine, There he cut and bound the fagots From the gnarled and stunted pine. Well the monarch knew the hermit, Much he marvelled now to see him But the hermit, resting neither "Think not that my graces slumber "Think not that the heavenly blessing From the workman's hand removes ; Who does best his task appointed, While he spoke, the hermit, pausing Through the dense and vaulted forest Poised upon a sculptured frame. Suddenly, with kindling features, Bright the well-worn steel is gleaming "See, my son," exclaimed the hermit, Faith's miraculous aid is given. "Toiling, hoping, often fainting, As we labour, Love divine Through the shadows pours its sunlight. Crowns the work-vouchsafes the sign.' Homeward slowly went the monarch, Soon the Benedictine Abbey Rose beside the hermit's cell; He, by royal hands invested, Ruled as Abbot long and well. Now, beside the rushing Danube, William Winter. ORGIA. HO cares for nothing, alone is free— WHO (Sit down, good fellow, and drink with me). With a careless heart and a merry eye, He will laugh at the world as the world goes by. He laughs at power, and wealth, and fame: He laughs at hope, and he laughs at fear; Oh, that is the comrade fit for me! In every city my cups I quaff; And over my liquor I riot and laugh, I laugh like the cruel and turbulent wave, I laugh in the church and I laugh at the grave. That I merrily, merrily laugh at woe. I terribly laugh, with an oath and a sneer, And he cares for nothing! a king is he! With you I will drink to the solemn Past, I will drink to the phantoms of Love and Truth; To ruined manhood and wasted youth. I will drink to the woman who wrought my woe In the diamond morning of long ago. To a heavenly face in sweet repose! To the lily's snow and the blood of the rose! To the splendour caught from Orient skies, Her large eyes, wild with the fire of the South; And the dewy wine of her warm, red mouth! I will drink to the shadow of coming doom! I will drink to my soul, in its terrible mood, And, last of all, to the Monarch of Sin, Who has conquered that palace and reigns within! My song is passing; it dies away; I cannot tell is it night or day. . . . My heart is burnt and blackened with pain, I cannot see you—the end is nigh— Through awful chasms I plunge and fall: BESIDE THE SEA. L HEY walked beside the Summer sea, THEY And watched the slowly dying sun; The gentle waters kissed the shore, And, sadly whispering, seemed to say, "He'll come no more! he'll come no more!" II. Alone beside the Autumn sea She watched the sombre death of day; "And oh," she said, "remember me And love me, darling, far away!" |