| Those faces brighten from the years
In rising suns long set in tears;
Those hearts, far in the Past they beat,
Unheard within the morning street.

A city of the world's gray prime,
Lost in some desert far from Time,
Where noiseless ages, gliding through,
Have only sifted sand and dew,
Yet a mysterious hand of man
Lying on all the haunted plan,
The passions of the human heart
Quickening the marble breast of Art,
Were not more strange to one who first
Upon its ghostly silence burst
Of life, upheaved on either side,
Than this vast quiet where the tide
Hangs trembling, ready soon to beat
With human waves the morning street.
Ay, soon the glowing morning flood
This silent stone, to music won,
Breaks through the charméd solitude:
Shall murmur to the rising sun;
The busy place, in dust and heat,
Shall rush with wheels and swarm with
feet;

The Arachne-threads of Purpose stream
Unseen within the morning gleam;
The life shall move, the death be plain;
The bridal throng, the funeral train,
Together, face to face, shall meet
And pass within the morning street.

From rose to red the level heaven burned; Then sudden, as if a sword fell from on high,

A blade of gold flashed on the horizon's rim.

THE SOWER.

I.

A SOWER went forth to sow,
His eyes were wild with woe;
He crushed the flowers beneath his feet,
Nor smelt the perfume, warm and sweet,
That prayed for pity everywhere.
He came to a field that was harried
By iron, and to heaven laid bare:
He shook the seed that he carried
O'er that brown and bladeless place.
He shook it, as God shakes hail
Over a doomed land,
When lightnings interlace
The sky and the earth, and his wand
Of love is a thunder-flail.

Thus did that Sower sow;
His seed was human blood,
And tears of women and men.
And I, who near him stood,
Said: When the crop comes, then
There will be sobbing and sighing,
Weeping and wailing and crying,
And a woe that is worse than woe.

II.

When next I went that way.
It was an autumn day
What was it that I heard?
And what, think you, did I see?

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The song of a sweet-voiced bird?
Thrilled through with praising prayer.
Nay, but the songs of many,

Were sad of memory:
Of all those voices not any

And a golden harvest glowed!
And a sea of sunlight flowed,

On my face I fell down there;
I hid my weeping eyes,

I said: O God, thou art wise!
And I thank thee, again and again,
For the Sower whose name is Fain.

WILLIAM BELL SCOTT.

THE DANCE.

(From "THE WITCH'S BALLAD."} O, I HAE come from far away,

From a warm land far away,
A southern land ayont the sea,
With sailor lads about the mast
Merry and canny and kind to me.

And I hae been to yon town,

To try my luck in yon town: Nort, and Mysie, Elspie too, Right braw we were to pass the gate Wi' gowden clasps on girdles blue.

Mysie smiled wi' miming mouth,

Innocent mouth, miming mouth; Elspie wore her scarlet gown, Nort's gray eyes were unco' gleg, My Castile comb was like a crown.

We walked abreast all up the street,

Into the market up the street: Our hair wi' marygolds was wound, Our bodices wi' love-knots laced, Our merchandise wi' tansy bound.

Nort had chickens, I had cocks,

Gamesome cocks, loud-crowing cocks; Mysie ducks, and Elspie drakes. For a wee groat or a pound,

We lost nae time wi' gives and takes.

Lost nae time, for weel we knew,

In our sleeves fu' weel we knew,
When the gloaming came that night,
Duck nor drake, nor hen nor cock,
Would be found by candlelight.

When our chaffering a' was done,
All was paid for, sold and done,
We drew a glove on ilka hand,
We sweetly curtsied each to each,
And deftly danced a saraband.

The market lasses looked and laughed,
Left their gear and looked and laughed;
They made as they would join the game,
But soon their mithers, wild and wud,
Wi' whack and screech they stopped the

same.

Sae loud the tongues o' raudies grew,
The flitin' and the skirlin' grew,
At a' the windows i' the place,
Wi' spoons and knives, wi' needle or awl,

Was thrust out ilka hand and face.

And down each stair they thronged anon;

Gentle, simple, thronged anon; Souter and tailor, frowzy Nan, The ancient widow young again Simpering behind her fan.

Without choice, against their will,

Doited, dazed against their will, The market lassie and her mither, The farmer and his husbandman, Hand in hand danced a' thegether.

Slow at first, but faster soon,

Still increasin' wild and fast, Hoods and mantles, hats and hose, Blindly doffed, and frae them cast, Left them naked, heads and toes.

They would hae torn us limb frae limb,

Dainty limb frae dainty limb; But never ane o' them could win Across the line that I had drawn Wi' bleeding thumb a-witherskin.

There was Jeff the provost's son,
Jeff the provost's only son;
There was Father Auld himsel',
The Lombard frae the hostelrie,
And the lawyer Peter Fell.

All goodly men we singled out,
Waled them well and singled out,

And drew them by the left hand in,
Mysie the priest, and Elspie won
The Lombard, Nort the lawyer curle,
And I my mysel' the provost's son.
Then wi' cantrip kisses seven,

Three times round wi' kisses seven,
Warped and woven there spun we,
Arms and legs and flaming hair,
Like a whirlwind on the sea.

Like the wind that sucks the sea,

Over and in and on the sea,
And ilka man o' all the four
Good sooth, it was a mad delight:
Shut his eyes and laughed outright,
Laughed as long as they had breath,

Laughed while they had sense or breath;
And close about us coiled a mist
Of gnats and midges, wasps and flies
Like the whirlwind shaft it rist.

Drawn up was I right off my feet,

Into the mist and off my feet;
And, dancing on each chimney-top,
I saw a thousand darling imps
Keeping time wi' skip and hop.

We'll gang ance mair to yon town,
Wi' better luck to yon town:
We'll walk in silk and cramoisie,
And I shall wed the prevost's son;
My lady o' the town I'll be!

;

For I was born a crowned king's child,
Born and nursed a king's child,
King o' a land ayont the sea,
Where the Blackamoor kissed me first
And taught me art and glamourie.
The Lombard shall be Elspie's man,

Elspie's gowden husbandman;
Nort shall take the lawyer's hand;
The priest shall swear another vow.
We'll dance again the saraband!

JOSEPH BRENNAN.

COME TO ME, DEAREST.

COME to me, dearest, I'm lonely without thee,

Day-time and night-time, I'm thinking about thee;

behold thee;

Unwelcome the waking which ceases to

fold thee.

Come to me, darling, my sorrows to

lighten,

Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten;

Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly,

Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy.

Swallows will flit round the desolate ruin,

Telling of spring and its joyous renewing And thoughts of thy love, and its manifold treasure, Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure.

O Spring of my spirit, O May of my bosom, Shine out on my soul, till it bourgeon and blossom;

The waste of my life has a rose-root

within it.

love,

Himself a model for all living men:
A mirror and a pattern of the Past.

Now when the years of mourning with their rites

Were at an end, Confucius came forth

time, love,

As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love:

I cannot weep but your tears will be

flowing,

You cannot smile but my cheek will be glowing;

Giving his counsel unto many kings; But still the hand of grief was on hi heart,

And his dark hue set forth his darkened