Eric Mackay

I. There are three kisses that I call to mind, And I will sing their secrets as I go.

I. O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame, Mother and maid, immortal, man's delight!

A Dirge. I. Art thou lonely in thy tomb?

The warrior knows how fitful is the fight, - How sad to live, - how sweet perchance to die. Is Fame his joy? He meets her on the height,

i. It seems a year, and more, since last we met, Since roseate spring repaid, in part, its debt

i. Glory to thee, my Queen! whom far away My thoughts aspire to,--as the birds of May

i. O thou refulgent essence of all grace! O thou that with the witchery of thy face

i. Oh, smile on me, thou syren of my soul! That I may curb my thoughts to some control

i. Dearest and best of maidens, whom the Fates have dower'd with beauty, whom the glory-gates

i. Vouchsafe, my Lady! by the passion-flower, And by the glamour of a moonlit hour,

i. Arise, fair Phoebus! and with looks serene Survey the world which late the orb'd Queen

i. I tell thee Sweet! there lives not on the earth A love like mine in all the height and girth

i. O Love! O Lustre of the sunlit earth That knows thy step and revels in the worth

i. Again, O Love! again I make lament, And, Arab-like, I pitch my summer-tent

A Mother's Name. I. I love the sound! The sweetest under Heaven,

Ah, fair Lord God of Heaven, to whom we call, - By whom we live, - on whom our hopes are built, - Do Thou, from year to year, e'en as Thou wilt,

I. Oh, give me light, to-day, or let me die, - The light of love, the love-light of the sky, -

I. That phantoms fair, with radiant hair, May seek at midnight hour

I. This is a song of serfs that I have made, A song of sympathy for grief and joy: -

The lightning is the shorthand of the storm That tells of chaos; and I read the same As one may read the writing of a name, -

I knew thee first as one may know the fame Of some apostle, as a man may know The mid-day sun far-shining o'er the snow.

Another night has turned itself to day, Another day has melted into eve, And lo! again I tread the measured way

I. I who have sung of love and lady bright And mirth and music and the world's delight,

Anteros. I. This is the feast-day of my soul and me,

Beethoven At The Piano. I. See where Beethoven sits alone - a dream of days elysian,

He was a god descended from the skies To fight the fight of Freedom o'er a grave, And consecrate a hope he could not save;

Cynthia. O Lady Moon, elect of all the spheres To be the guardian of the ocean-tides,

Daisies Out At Sea. I. These are the buds we bear beyond the surf, -

Dante. He liv'd and lov'd; he suffer'd; he was poor; But he was gifted with the gifts of Heaven,

Death. It is the joy, it is the zest of life, To know that Death, ungainly to the vile,

I cannot deck my thought in proud attire, Or make it fit for thee in any dress, Or sing to thee the songs of thy desire,

Ecstasy. I cannot sing to thee as I would sing If I were quickened like the holy lark

I. The forest flowers are faded all, The winds complain, the snow-flakes fall,

Ex Tenebra. The winds have shower'd their rains upon the sod, And flowers and trees have murmur'd as with lips.

VII. Fairies. Glory endures when calumny hath fled;

I. Ti saluto, Margherita Fior di vita, ... ti saluto!

I. O mesto bambino col capo chinato, Rispondi; rispondi. Che fece Renato?

In Tuscany. Dost thou remember, friend of vanish'd days, How in the golden land of love and song,

I. Dimmi, dimmi, o trovatore, Tu che canti sul l'uto,

Letter I. Prelude. I. Teach me to love thee as a man, in prayer,

Letter II. Sorrow. I. Yes, I was mad. I know it. I was mad.

Letter III. Regrets. I. When I did wake, to-day, a bird of Heaven,

Letter IV. Yearnings. I. The earth is glad, I know, when night is spent,

Letter IX. To-Morrow. I. O Love! O Love! O Gateway of Delight!

Letter V. Confessions. I. O Lady mine! O Lady of my Life!

Letter VI. Despair. I. I am undone. My hopes have beggar'd me,

Letter VII. Hope. I. O tears of mine! Ye start I know not why,

Letter VIII. A Vision. I. Yes, I will tell thee what, a week ago,

Letter X. A Retrospect. I. I walk again beside the roaring sea,

Letter XI. Faith. I. Now will I sing to God a song of praise,

Letter XII. Victory. I. Now have I reach'd the goal of my desire,

XI. Love's Ambition. I must invoke thee for my spirit's good, And prove myself un-guilty of the crime

Do what I will, I cannot chant so well As other men; and yet my soul is true. My hopes are bold; my thoughts are hard to tell,

I. O thou to whom, athwart the perish'd days And parted nights long sped, we lift our gaze,

I. 'Tis a legend of a lover, 'Tis a ballad to be sung,

I. My Love is a lady fair and free, A lady fair from over the sea,

I. Who comes, to-day, with sunlight on his face, And eyes of fire, that have a sorrow's trace,

Lo, as a minstrel at the court of Love, The nightingale, who knows his mate is nigh, Thrills into rapture; and the stars above

["We have not, alack! an ally to befriend us, And the season is ripe to extirpate and end us. Let the German touch hands with the Gaul,

IV. Probation. Could I, O Love! obtain a charter clear

Go, get thee gone. I love thee not, I swear; And if I lov'd thee well in days gone by, And if I kiss'd, and trifled with thy hair,

I. Lo! at my feet, A something pale of hue;

How great my joy! How grand my recompense! I bow to thee; I keep thee in my sight. I call thee mine, in love though not in sense

I. What shall be done? I cannot pray; And none shall know the pangs I feel.

See where it stands, the world-appointed flower, Pure gold at centre, like the sun at noon, - A mimic sun to light a true-love bower

I. O stars that fade in amber skies Because ye dread the light of day,

I. A little mound of earth Is all the land I own:

He is a seer. He wears the wedding-ring Of Art and Nature; and his voice is bold. He should be quicker than the birds to sing,

I. Up with the country's flag! And let the winds caress it, fold on fold,--

O Petrarch! I am here. I bow to thee, Great king of sonnets, thron'd long ago And lover-like, as Love enjoineth me,

The Statue. I. See where my lady stands,

I. O bonnie bird, that in the brake, exultant, dost prepare thee - As poets do whose thoughts are true, for wings that will upbear thee -

Oh, let me plead with thee to have a nook, A garden nook, not far from thy domain, That there, with harp, and voice, and poet-book,

Token Flowers. Oh, not the daisy, for the love of God! Take not the daisy; let it bloom apace

Victor the King! alive to-day, not dead! Behold, I bring thee with a subject's hand A poor pale wreath, the best at my command,

The Poet meets Apollo on the hill, And Pan and Flora and the Paphian Queen, And infant na'ads bathing in the rill,

Zulalie. I. I am the sprite