Green English homestead, cloud-crown'd Attic hill,
The Poet passes--whither? Not the helm
Of wounded ARTHUR, lit by light that fills
Avilion's fair horizons, gleamed more bright
Than does that leonine laurelled visage now,
Fronting with steadfast look that mystic Light.
Grave eye, and gracious brow
Turn from the evening bell, the earthly shore,
To face the Light that floods him evermore.

Farewell! How fitlier should a poet pass
Than thou from that dim chamber and the gleam
Of poor earth's purest radiance? Love, alas!
Of that strange scene must long in sorrow dream.
But we--we hear thy manful music still!
A royal requiem for a kingly soul!
No sadness of farewell! Away regret,
When greatness nears its goal!
We follow thee, in thought, through light, afar
Divinely piloted beyond the bar!

* * * * *

TO MY SWEETHEART.

["Those roses you bought and gave to me are marvels. They are
still alive."--_Her Letter_.]

[Illustration]