"But it suits

"I will move," said the Owl. me well; And one may get used to it, who can tell?” So he slept in the day with all his might, And rose and flapped out in the hush of night, When the Bell was asleep in his tower at home,

Dreaming over his Bing, Bang, Bome!

For the owl was born so poor and genteel,
He was forced from the first to pick and
steal;

He scorned to work for honest bread-
"Better have never been hatched!" he said.
So he slept all day; for he dared not roam
Till night had silenced the Bing, Bang,
Bome!

When his six little darlings had chipped the egg,

He must steal the more: 'twas a shame to beg. And they ate the more that they did not sleep well:

"It's their gizzards," said Ma; said Pa, "It's the Bell!

For they quiver like leaves in a wind-blown tome,

When the Bell bellows out his Bing, Bang,
Bome!"

But the Bell began to throb with the fear
Of bringing the house about his one ear;
And his people were patching all day long,
And propping the walls to make them strong.
So a fortnight he sat, and felt like a mome,
For he dared not shout his Bing, Bang, Bome!

Said the Owl to himself, and hissed as he said,
"I do believe the old fool is dead.
Now-now, I vow, I shall never pounce
twice;

And stealing shall be all sugar and spice.

But I'll see the corpse, ere he's laid in the loam,

And shout in his ear Bing, Bim, Bang,

Bome!

Hoo hoo!" he cried, as he entered the

steeple,

"They've hanged him at last, the righteous

people!

His swollen tongue lolls out of his headHoo hoo! at last the old brute is dead. There let him hang, the shapeless gnome! Choked, with his throat full of Bing, Bang, Bome!"

So he danced about him, singing Too-whoo! And flapped the poor Bell, and said, "Is that you?

Where is your voice with its wonderful tone, Banging poor owls, and making them groan? A fig for you now, in your great hall-dome! Too-whoo is better than Bing, Bang, Bome!"

So brave was the Owl, the downy and dapper, That he flew inside, and sat on the clapper; And he shouted Too-whoo! till the echo awoke,

Like the sound of a ghostly clapper-stroke:

It was three months and over since the dear lad had started:

On the green downs at Cromer I sat to see the view;

On an open space of herbage, where the ling and fern had parted,

Betwixt the tall white lighthouse towers, the old and the new.

Below me lay the wide sea, the scarlet sun was stooping;

And he dyed the waste water, as with a scarlet dye;

And he dyed the lighthouse towers; every bird with white wing swooping

Took his colours, and the cliffs did, and the yawning sky.

Over grass came that strange flush, and over ling and heather,

Over flocks of sheep and lambs, and over Cromer town;

And each filmy cloudlet crossing drifted like a scarlet feather

Torn from the folded wings of clouds, while he settled down.

I was tired of my sorrow-0 so faint, for it was double

In the weight of its oppression, that I could not speak!

And a little comfort grew, while the dimmed eyes were feeding,

And the dull ears with murmur of waters satisfied

But a dream came slowly nigh me, all my thoughts and fancy leading

Across the bounds of waking life to the other side.

And I dreamt that I looked out, to the waste

waters turning,

And saw the flakes of scarlet from wave to

wave tossed on;

And the scarlet mix with azure, where a heap of gold lay burning

On the clear remote sea reaches; for the sun was gone.

Then I thought a far-off shout dropped across the still water

A question as I took it, for soon an answer

came

From the tall white ruined lighthouse: "If it be the old man's daughter That we wot of," ran the answer, "what then-who's to blame?"

I looked up at the lighthouse all roofless and storm-broken:

A great white bird sat on it, with neck stretched out to sea;

Unto somewhat which was sailing in a skiff the bird had spoken,

And a trembling seized my spirit, for they talked of me.

I was the old man's daughter, the bird went on to name him;

"He loved to count the starlings as he sat in the sun!

Long ago he served with Nelson, and his story did not shame him:

Ay, the old man was a good man-and his work was done."

The skiff was like a crescent, ghost of some moon departed,

Frail, white, she rocked and curtseyed as the red wave she crossed,

And the thing within sat paddling, and the crescent dipped and darted,

Flying on, again was shouting, but the words were lost.

I said, "That thing is hooded; I could hear but that floweth

The great hood below its mouth:" then the bird made reply,

"If they know not, more's the pity, for the little shrewmouse knoweth,

And the kite knows, and the eagle, and the glead and pye."

And he stooped to whet his beak on the stones of the coping;

And when once more the shout came, in querulous tones he spake,

"What I said was 'more's the pity;"" if the heart be long past hoping,

Let it say of death, "I know it," or doubt on and break.

"Men must die-one dies by day, and near him moans his mother,

They dig his grave, tread it down, and go from it full loth;

And one dies about the midnight, and the wind moans, and no other,

And the snows give him a burial-and God loves them both.

"The first hath no advantage-it shall not soothe his slumber

That a lock of his brown hair his father aye shall keep;

For the last, he nothing grudgeth, it shall nought his quiet cumber,

That in a golden mesh of HIS callow eaglets sleep.

"Men must die when all is said, e'en the kite and glead know it,

And the lad's father knew it, and the lad, the lad too;

It was never kept a secret, waters bring it and winds blow it,

And he met it on the mountain-why then make ado?"

With that he spread his white wings, and swept across the water,

Lit upon the hooded head, and it and all went down;

And they laughed as they went under, and I
woke, "the old man's daughter,"
And looked across the slope of grass, and at
Cromer Town.

And I said, "Is that the sky, all grey and silver suited ?"

And I thought, "Is that the sea that lies so white and wan?

I have dreamed as I remember; give me time -I was reputed

Once to have a steady courage-O, I fear 'tis gone!"

And I said, "Is this my heart? If it be, low 'tis beating,

So he lies on the mountain, hard by the eagles' brood;

I have had a dream this evening, while the white and gold were fleeting,

But I need not, need not tell it-where would be the good?

'Where would be the good to them his father and his mother ?

For the ghost of their dead hope appeareth to them still.

Sleep, and not know if she be, if she wereFilled full with life to the eyes and the hair, As a rose is full filled to the rose-leaf tips With splendid summer, and perfume. and pride.

This woven raiment of nights and days,

Were it once cast off and unwound from me, Naked and glad would I walk in thy waysAlive and aware of thy ways and thee; Clear of the whole world, hidden at home, Clothed with the green and crowned with the foam,

A pulse of the life of thy straits and bays,
A vein in the heart of the streams of the
Sea.

Fair mother, fed with the lives of men,

Thou art subtle and cruel of heart, men

say

Thou hast taken, and shalt not render again. Thou art full of thy dead, and cold as they. But death is the worst that comes of thee; Thou art fed with our dead, O mother, O Sea. But when hast thou fed on our hearts ? or when,

Having given us love, hast thou taken away?

O, tender-hearted, O, perfect lover,

Thy lips are bitter and sweet thine heart. The hopes that hurt and the dreams that hover

Shall they not vanish away and apart? But thou, thou art sure, thou art older than earth;

Thou art strong for death and fruitful of birth;

Thy depths conceal and thy gulfs discover From the first thou wert; in the end thou art.

Algernon Charles Swinburne.

1834.-MELEAGER (son of Œneus and Althæa) DYING.

(From "ATALANTA IN CALYDON.") Pray thou thy days be long before thy death, And full of ease and kingdom; seeing in death

There is no comfort and no aftergrowth.
Nor shall one thence look up and see day's
dawn,

Nor light upon the land whither I go.
Live thou, and take thy fill of days, and die
When thy day comes; and make not much of
death,

Lest ere thy day thou reap an evil thing. Thou, too, the bitter mother and motherplague

Of this my weary body-thou, too, queen, The source and end, the sower and the scythe, The rain that ripens and the drought that slays,

The sand that swallows and the spring that feeds,

To make me and unmake me,-thou, I say, Althæa, since my father's ploughshare, drawn Through fatal seedland of a female field, Furrowed thy body, whence a wheaten ear Strong from the sun and fragrant from the rains

I sprang and cleft the closure of thy womb. Mother, I, dying, with unforgetful tongue Hail thee as holy and worship thee as just Who art unjust and unholy; and with my knees

Would worship, but thy fire and subtlety Dissundering them, devour me; for these limbs

Are as light dust and crumblings from mine

urn

Before the fire has touched them; and my face

As a dead leaf or dead foot's mark on snow,
And all this body a broken barren tree
That was so strong; and all this flower of
life

Disbranched and desecrated miserably,
And 'minished all that godlike muscle and
might

And lesser than a man's: for all my veins
Fail me, and all my ashen life burns down.
I would thou hadst let me live; but gods

averse,

But fortune, and the fiery feet of change, And time, these would not,-these tread out my life,

These, and not thou; me, too, thou hast loved, and I

Thee; but this death was mixed with all my life,

Mine end with my beginning; and this law, This only, slays me, and not my mother at all.

And let no brother or sister grieve too sore, Nor melt their hearts out on me with their

tears,

Since extreme love and sorrowing overmuch
Vex the great gods, and overloving men
Slay and are slain for love's sake; and this
house

Shall bear much better children. Why should these

Weep? But in patience let them live their lives,

And mine pass by forgotten: thou alone
Mother, thou sole and only,-thou, not these,
Keep me in mind a little when I die,
Because I was thy firstborn; let thy soul
Pity me, pity even me gone hence and dead,
Though thou wert wroth, and though thou

bear again

Much happier sons, and all men later born
Exceedingly excel me; yet do thou

Forget not, nor think shame ;-I was thy son.
Time was I did not shame thee; and time was
I thought to live and make thee honourable
With deeds as great as these men's; but they

live,

These, and I die; and what thing should have been

Surely I know not; yet I charge thee, seeing
I am dead already, not to love me less,-
Me, O my mother; I charge thee by these
gods-

My father's, and that holier breast of thine, By these that see me dying, and that which nursed,

Love me not less, thy first-born: thou, grief,

come,

Grief only, of me, and of all these great joy, And shall come always to thee; for thou knowest,

O mother, O breasts that bare me, for ye know,

O sweet head of my mother, sacred eyes,
Ye know my soul, albeit I sinned; ye know
Albeit I kneel not, neither touch my knees,
But with my lips I kneel, and with my heart
I fall about thy feet and worship thee.
And ye farewell now, all my friends; and ye
Kinsmen, much younger and glorious more
than I,

Sons of my mother's sister; and all farewell
That were in Colchis with me, and bare down
The waves and wars that met us: and though
times

Change, and though now I be not anything,
Forget not me among you what I did

In my good time; for even by all those days, Those days and this, and your own living souls,

And by the light and luck of you that live,
And by this miserable spoil, and me
Dying, I beseech you let my name not die.
But thou, dear, touch me with thy rose-like
hands,

And fasten up my eyelids with thy mouth,
A bitter kiss; and grasp me with thine arms,
Printing with heavy lips my light waste flesh
Made light and thin by heavy-handed fate,
And with thine holy maiden eyes drop dew,
Drop tears for dew upon me who am dead,
Me who have loved thee; seeing without sin
done

I am gone down to the empty, weary house
Where no flesh is, nor beauty, nor swift eyes,
Nor sound of mouth, nor might of hands and
feet;

But thou, dear, hide my body with thy veil,
And with thy raiment cover foot and head,
And stretch thyself upon me, and touch hands
With hands, and lips with lips: be pitiful
As thou art maiden perfect; let no man
Defile me to despise me, saying, This man
Died woman-wise, a woman's offering, slain
Through female fingers in his woof of life,
Dishonourable; for thou hast honoured me.
And now, for God's sake, kiss me once and
twice

And let me go; for the night gathers me,
And in the night shall no man gather fruit.
Algernon Charles Swinburne. I

1835.-IRIS, THE RAINBOW.
'Mid the cloud-enshrouded haze
Of Olympus I arise,
With the full and rainy gaze

Of Apollo in mine eyes;
But I shade my dazzled glance

With my dripping pinions white,
Where the sunlight sparkles dance
In a many-tinctured light:
My foot upon the woof

Of a fleecy cloudlet small,
I glimmer through the roof
Of the paven banquet hall.
And a soft, pink radiance dips
Through the floating mists divine-
Touching eyes and cheeks and lips
Of the mild-eyed Gods supine;
And the pinky odour rolls

Round their foreheads, while I stain
With a blush like wine the bowls

Of foam-crusted porcelain :
Till the whole calm place has caught
A deep gleam of rosy fire-
When I darken to the thought

In the eyes of Zeus the Sire.
Then Zeus, arising, stoops

O'er the ledges of the skies, Looking downward through the loops Of the starry tapestries:

On the evident dark plain

Speckled with wood and hill and stream, On the wrinkled tawny main,

Where the ships like snowflakes gleam, And with finger without swerve.

Slightly lifted, swiftly whirled, He draws a magic curve

O'er the cirrus of the world;
When with waving wings displayed
On the sun-god's threshold bright
I upleap and seem to fade

In a humi flash of light.
But I plunge through vapours dim
To the dark low-lying land,
And I tumble, float, and swim

On the strange curve of the Hand:
From my wings that drip, drip, drip
With cool rains, short jets of fire,
As across green Capes I slip

With the thought of Zeus the Sire.

Thence, with drooping wings bedewed,
Folded close about my form,

I alight with feet unviewed
On the ledges of the storm;
For a moment, cloud-enrolled,

'Mid the murmurous rain I stand, And with meteor eyes behold

Vapoury ocean, misty land:
Till the thought of Zeus outsprings
From my ripe mouth with a sigh,
And unto my lips it clings

Like a shining butterfly;
When I brighten, gleam, and glow
And my glittering wings unfurl,
And the melting colours flow
To my foot of dusky pearl;