Years blotted out the man, but left
    The jewel fresh as any blossom,
  Till some Visconti dug it up—­
    To rise and fall on Mabel’s bosom!

  O nameless brother! see how Time
    Your gracious handiwork has guarded: 
  See how your loving, patient art
    Has come, at last, to be rewarded.

  Who would not suffer slights of men,
    And pangs of hopeless passion also,
  To have his carven agate-stone
    On such a bosom rise and fall so!

T.B.  ALDRICH.

Hunting-song.

  Oh, who would stay indoor, indoor,
  When the horn is on the hill? (Bugle:  Tarantara!)
  With the crisp air stinging, and the huntsmen singing,
  And a ten-tined buck to kill!

  Before the sun goes down, goes down,
  We shall slay the buck of ten; (Bugle:  Tarantara!)
  And the priest shall say benison, and we shall ha’e venison,
  When we come home again.

  Let him that loves his ease, his ease,
  Keep close and house him fair; (Bugle:  Tarantara!)
  He’ll still be a stranger to the merry thrill of danger
  And the joy of the open air.

  But he that loves the hills, the hills,
  Let him come out to-day! (Bugle:  Tarantara!)
  For the horses are neighing, and the hounds are baying,
  And the hunt’s up, and away!

R. HOVEY.

Parting.

  My life closed twice before its close;
    It yet remains to see
  If Immortality unveil
    A third event to me,

  So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
    As these that twice befell. 
  Parting is all we know of heaven,
    And all we need of hell.

E. DICKINSON.

When the Sultan Goes to Ispahan.

When the Sultan Shah-Zaman Goes to the city Ispahan, Even before he gets so far As the place where the clustered palm-trees are, At the last of the thirty palace-gates, The flower of the harem, Rose-in-Bloom, Orders a feast in his favorite room—­ Glittering squares of colored ice, Sweetened with syrop, tinctured with spice, Creams, and cordials, and sugared dates, Syrian apples, Othmanee quinces, Limes, and citrons, and apricots, And wines that are known to Eastern princes; And Nubian slaves, with smoking pots Of spiced meats and costliest fish And all that the curious palate could wish, Pass in and out of the cedarn doors; Scattered over mosaic floors Are anemones, myrtles, and violets, And a musical fountain throws its jets Of a hundred colors into the air.  The dusk Sultana loosens her hair, And stains with the henna-plant the tips Of her pointed nails, and bites her lips Till they bloom again; but, alas, that rose Not for the Sultan buds and blows! Not for the Sultan Shah-Zaman When he goes to the city Ispahan.

  Then at a wave of her sunny hand
  The dancing-girls of Samarcand