104 



Note on Mr. A. Branson's Paper, 



Yon heaven for our ruin — yours and mine, — 

 Rolls on to wreck our being — yours and mine. 



Rest on the grass, dear Love — it won't be long 

 Till grass grows out of our dust — yours and mine. 



Alas for me ! the Book of Youth is read, 

 The fresh glad Spring is now December dead : 



That Bird of joy whose name was Youth is flown — 

 Ay me, I know not how he came or fled \ {a) 

 ii. 



Thou art the Opener, open Thou the door : 

 Thou art the Teacher, teach my soul to soar : 

 No human Masters hold me by the hand, 

 For they are mortal—Thou for evermore, 

 in. 



In school and cloister, mosque and fane, one lies 

 Adread of Hell, one dreams of Paradise : 



But none that know the secrets of the Lord 

 Have sown their hearts with suchlike fantasies. 

 Ah strive amain no human heart to wring ; 

 Let no one feel thine anger burn or sting : 



Wouldst thou be lapt in long-enduriug joy, 

 Know how to suffer : cause no suffering. 



IV. 



This is the time for roses and repose 

 Beside the stream that by the meadow goes, 



A friend or two, a Lady like a rose, 

 With wine, and none to heed how Mullahs prose. 



Come bring that Ruby in yon crystal bowl, 

 That brother true of every open soul : 



Thou knowest overwell, this life of ours 

 Is wind that hurries by — 0 bring the bowl ! 

 With loving lip to lip the bowl I drain 

 To learn how long my soul must here remain, 



And lip to lip it whispers, " while you live 

 Drink, for once gone you come not back again(5)." 



(a) Cf. 7ro#os 8e fj.oi tos ovap ctttt}. Bion. a. 



(b) Cf. Olivier Basselin, Vaiix de Tire XVII. f Les morts ne boivent 

 plus dedans la sepulture.' 



