I pray not that
Men tremble at
  My power of place
    And lordly sway,—­
I only pray for simple grace
To look my neighbor in the face
  Full honestly from day to day—­
Yield me his horny palm to hold,
      And I’ll not pray
        For gold;—­
The tanned face, garlanded with mirth,
It hath the kingliest smile on earth—­
The swart brow, diamonded with sweat,
Hath never need of coronet. 
      And so I reach,
        Dear Lord, to Thee,
      And do beseech
        Thou givest me
The wee cot, and the cricket’s chirr,
Love, and the glad sweet face of her.

[Illustration:  (IKE WALTON’S PRAYER—­TAILPIECE)]

ILLILEO

Illileo, the moonlight seemed lost across the vales—­
The stars but strewed the azure as an armor’s scattered scales;
The airs of night were quiet as the breath of silken sails;
And all your words were sweeter than the notes of nightingales.

Illileo Legardi, in the garden there alone,
With your figure carved of fervor, as the Psyche carved of stone,
There came to me no murmur of the fountain’s undertone
So mystically, musically mellow as your own.

You whispered low, Illileo—­so low the leaves were mute,
And the echoes faltered breathless in your voice’s vain pursuit;
And there died the distant dalliance of the serenader’s lute: 
And I held you in my bosom as the husk may hold the fruit.

Illileo, I listened.  I believed you.  In my bliss,
What were all the worlds above me since I found you thus in this?—­
Let them reeling reach to win me—­even Heaven I would miss,
Grasping earthward!—­I would cling here, though I clung by just a kiss!

And blossoms should grow odorless—­and lilies all aghast—­
And I said the stars should slacken in their paces through the vast,
Ere yet my loyalty should fail enduring to the last.—­
So vowed I. It is written.  It is changeless as the past.

Illileo Legardi, in the shade your palace throws
Like a cowl about the singer at your gilded porticos,
A moan goes with the music that may vex the high repose
Of a heart that fades and crumbles as the crimson of a rose.

[Illustration:  (ILLILEO)]

[Illustration:  (WIFE-BLESSED, THE)]

THE WIFE-BLESSED

I

In youth he wrought, with eyes ablur,
  Lorn-faced and long of hair—­
In youth—­in youth he painted her
  A sister of the air—­
Could clasp her not, but felt the stir
  Of pinions everywhere.

II

She lured his gaze, in braver days,
  And tranced him sirenwise;
And he did paint her, through a haze
  Of sullen paradise,
With scars of kisses on her face
  And embers in her eyes.