VERSE: A REMEMBRANCE OF AUTUMN

Nothing stirs the sunny silence,— Save the drowsy humming of the bees Round the rich, ripe peaches on the wall, And the south wind sighing in the trees, And the dead leaves rustling as they fall: While the swallows, one by one, are gathering, All impatient to be on the wing, And to wander from us, seeking Their beloved Spring!

Cloudless rise the azure heavens! Only vaporous wreaths of snowy white Nestle in the grey hill's rugged side; And the golden woods are bathed in light, Dying, if they must, with kingly pride: While the swallows in the blue air wheeling, Circle now an eager fluttering band, Ready to depart and leave us For a brighter land!

But a voice is sounding sadly, Telling of a glory that has been; Of a day that faded all too fast— See afar through the blue air serene, Where the swallows wing their way at last, And our hearts perchance, as sadly wandering, Vainly seeking for a long-lost day, While we watch the far-off swallows, Flee with them away!



VERSE: THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE

I.

Yes, it looked dark and dreary, That long and narrow street: Only the sound of the rain, And the tramp of passing feet, The duller glow of the fire, And gathering mists of night To mark how slow and weary The long day's cheerless flight!

II.

Watching the sullen fire, Hearing the dismal rain, Drop after drop, run down On the darkening window-pane: Chill was the heart of Alice, Chill as that winter day,— For the star of her life had risen Only to fade away.

III.

The voice that had been so strong To bid the snare depart, The true and earnest will, The calm and steadfast heart, Were now weighed down by sorrow, Were quivering now with pain; The clear path now seemed clouded, And all her grief in vain.

IV.

Duty, Right, Truth, who promised To help and save their own, Seemed spreading wide their pinions To leave her there alone. So, turning from the Present To well-known days of yore, She called on them to strengthen And guard her soul once more.

V.

She thought how in her girlhood Her life was given away, The solemn promise spoken She kept so well to-day; How to her brother Herbert She had been help and guide, And how his artist nature On her calm strength relied.

VI.

How through life's fret and turmoil The passion and fire of art In him was soothed and quickened By her true sister heart; How future hopes had always Been for his sake alone; And now,—what strange new feeling Possessed her as its own?

VII.

Her home—each flower that breathed there, The wind's sigh, soft and low, Each trembling spray of ivy, The river's murmuring flow, The shadow of the forest, Sunset, or twilight dim— Dear as they were, were dearer By leaving them for him.

VIII.

And each year as it found her In the dull, feverish town, Saw self still more forgotten, And selfish care kept down By the calm joy of evening That brought him to her side, To warn him with wise counsel, Or praise with tender pride.

IX.

Her heart, her life, her future, Her genius, only meant Another thing to give him, And be therewith content. To-day, what words had stirred her, Her soul could not forget? What dream had filled her spirit With strange and wild regret?

X.

To leave him for another,— Could it indeed be so? Could it have cost such anguish To bid this vision go? Was this her faith? Was Herbert The second in her heart? Did it need all this struggle To bid a dream depart?

XI.

And yet, within her spirit A far-off land was seen, A home, which might have held her, A love, which might have been. And Life—not the mere being Of daily ebb and flow, But Life itself had claimed her, And she had let it go!

XII.

Within her heart there echoed Again the well-known tone That promised this bright future, And asked her for her own: Then words of sorrow, broken By half-reproachful pain; And then a farewell spoken In words of cold disdain.

XIII.

Where now was the stern purpose That nerved her soul so long? Whence came the words she uttered, So hard, so cold, so strong? What right had she to banish A hope that God had given? Why must she choose earth's portion, And turn aside from Heaven?

XIV.

To-day! Was it this morning? If this long, fearful strife Was but the work of hours, What would be years of life? Why did a cruel Heaven For such great suffering call? And why—Oh, still more cruel!— Must her own words do all?

XV.

Did she repent? Oh Sorrow! Why do we linger still To take thy loving message, And do thy gentle will? See, her tears fall more slowly, The passionate murmurs cease, And back upon her spirit Flow strength, and love, and peace.

XVI.

The fire burns more brightly, The rain has passed away, Herbert will see no shadow Upon his home to-day; Only that Alice greets him With doubly tender care, Kissing a fonder blessing Down on his golden hair.

II.

I.

The studio is deserted, Palette and brush laid by, The sketch rests on the easel, The paint is scarcely dry; And Silence—who seems always Within her depths to bear The next sound that will utter— Now holds a dumb despair.

II.

So Alice feels it: listening With breathless, stony fear, Waiting the dreadful summons Each minute brings more near: When the young life, now ebbing, Shall fail, and pass away Into that mighty shadow Who shrouds the house to-day.

III.

But why—when the sick chamber Is on the upper floor— Why dares not Alice enter Within the close—shut door? If he—her all—her Brother, Lies dying in that gloom, What strange mysterious power Has sent her from the room?

IV.

It is not one week's anguish That can have changed her so; Joy has not died here lately, Struck down by one quick blow; But cruel months have needed Their long relentless chain, To teach that shrinking manner Of helpless, hopeless pain.

V.

The struggle was scarce over Last Christmas Eve had brought: The fibres still were quivering Of the one wounded thought, When Herbert—who, unconscious, Had guessed no inward strife— Bade her, in pride and pleasure, Welcome his fair young wife.

VI.

Bade her rejoice, and smiling, Although his eyes were dim, Thanked God he thus could pay her The care she gave to him. This fresh bright life would bring her A new and joyous fate— Oh, Alice, check the murmur That cries, "Too late! too late!"

VII.

Too late! Could she have known it A few short weeks before, That his life was completed, And needing hers no more, She might—Oh sad repining! What "might have been," forget; "It was not," should suffice us To stifle vain regret.

VIII.

He needed her no longer, Each day it grew more plain; First with a startled wonder, Then with a wondering pain. Love: why, his wife best gave it; Comfort: durst Alice speak, Or counsel, when resentment Flushed on the young wife's cheek?

IX.

No more long talks by firelight Of childish times long past, And dreams of future greatness Which he must reach at last; Dreams, where her purer instinct With truth unerring told, Where was the worthless gilding, And where refined gold.

X.

Slowly, but surely ever, Dora's poor jealous pride, Which she called love for Herbert, Drove Alice from his side; And, spite of nervous effort To share their altered life, She felt a check to Herbert, A burden to his wife.

XI.

This was the least; for Alice Feared, dreaded, knew at length How much his nature owed her Of truth, and power, and strength; And watched the daily failing Of all his nobler part: Low aims, weak purpose, telling In lower, weaker art.

XII.

And now, when he is dying, The last words she could hear Must not be hers, but given The bride of one short year. The last care is another's; The last prayer must not be The one they learnt together Beside their mother's knee.

XIII.

Summoned at last: she kisses The clay-cold stiffening hand; And, reading pleading efforts To make her understand, Answers, with solemn promise, In clear but trembling tone, To Dora's life henceforward She will devote her own.

XIV.

Now all is over. Alice Dares not remain to weep, But soothes the frightened Dora Into a sobbing sleep. The poor weak child will need her: . . . Oh, who can dare complain, When God sends a new Duty To comfort each new Pain!

III.

I.

The House is all deserted, In the dim evening gloom, Only one figure passes Slowly from room to room; And, pausing at each doorway, Seems gathering up again Within her heart the relics Of bygone joy and pain.

II.

There is an earnest longing In those who onward gaze, Looking with weary patience Towards the coming days. There is a deeper longing, More sad, more strong, more keen: Those know it who look backward, And yearn for what has been.

III.

At every hearth she pauses, Touches each well-known chair; Gazes from every window, Lingers on every stair. What have these months brought Alice Now one more year is past? This Christmas Eve shall tell us, The third one and the last.

IV.

The wilful, wayward Dora, In those first weeks of grief, Could seek and find in Alice Strength, soothing, and relief; And Alice—last sad comfort True woman-heart can take— Had something still to suffer And bear for Herbert's sake.

V.

Spring, with her western breezes, From Indian islands bore To Alice news that Leonard Would seek his home once more. What was it—joy, or sorrow? What were they—hopes, or fears? That flushed her cheeks with crimson, And filled her eyes with tears?

VI.

He came. And who so kindly Could ask and hear her tell Herbert's last hours; for Leonard Had known and loved him well. Daily he came; and Alice, Poor weary heart, at length, Weighed down by others' weakness, Could lean upon his strength.

VII.

Yet not the voice of Leonard Could her true care beguile, That turned to watch, rejoicing Dora's reviving smile. So, from that little household The worst gloom passed away, The one bright hour of evening Lit up the livelong day.

VIII.

Days passed. The golden summer In sudden heat bore down Its blue, bright, glowing sweetness Upon the scorching town. And sighs and sounds of country Came in the warm soft tune Sung by the honeyed breezes Borne on the wings of June.

IX.

One twilight hour, but earlier Than usual, Alice thought She knew the fresh sweet fragrance Of flowers that Leonard brought; Through opened doors and windows It stole up through the gloom, And with appealing sweetness Drew Alice from her room.

X.

Yes, he was there; and pausing Just near the opened door, To check her heart's quick beating, She heard—and paused still more— His low voice—Dora's answers— His pleading—Yes, she knew The tone—the words—the accents: She once had heard them too.

XI.

"Would Alice blame her?" Leonard's Low, tender answer came;— "Alice was far too noble To think or dream of blame." "And was he sure he loved her?" "Yes, with the one love given Once in a lifetime only, With one soul and one heaven!"

XII.

Then came a plaintive murmur,— "Dora had once been told That he and Alice"—"Dearest, Alice is far too cold To love; and I, my Dora, If once I fancied so, It was a brief delusion, And over,—long ago."

XIII.

Between the Past and Present, On that bleak moment's height, She stood. As some lost traveller By a quick flash of light Seeing a gulf before him, With dizzy, sick despair, Reels backward, but to find it A deeper chasm there.

XIV.

The twilight grew still darker, The fragrant flowers more sweet, The stars shone out in heaven, The lamps gleamed down the street; And hours passed in dreaming Over their new-found fate, Ere they could think of wondering Why Alice was so late.

XV.

She came, and calmly listened; In vain they strove to trace If Herbert's memory shadowed In grief upon her face. No blame, no wonder showed there, No feeling could be told; Her voice was not less steady, Her manner not more cold.

XVI.

They could not hear the anguish That broke in words of pain Through the calm summer midnight,— "My Herbert—mine again!" Yes, they have once been parted, But this day shall restore The long lost one: she claims him: "My Herbert—mine once more!"

XVII.

Now Christmas Eve returning, Saw Alice stand beside The altar, greeting Dora, Again a smiling bride; And now the gloomy evening Sees Alice pale and worn, Leaving the house for ever, To wander out forlorn.

XVIII.

Forlorn—nay, not so. Anguish Shall do its work at length; Her soul, passed through the fire, Shall gain still purer strength. Somewhere there waits for Alice An earnest noble part; And, meanwhile God is with her,— God, and her own true heart!



VERSE: THE WIND

The wind went forth o'er land and sea Loud and free; Foaming waves leapt up to meet it, Stately pines bowed down to greet it; While the wailing sea And the forest's murmured sigh Joined the cry Of the wind that swept o'er land and sea.

The wind that blew upon the sea Fierce and free, Cast the bark upon the shore, Whence it sailed the night before Full of hope and glee; And the cry of pain and death Was but a breath, Through the wind that roared upon the sea.

The wind was whispering on the lea Tenderly; But the white rose felt it pass, And the fragile stalks of grass Shook with fear to see All her trembling petals shed, As it fled, So gently by,—the wind upon the lea.

Blow, thou wind, upon the sea Fierce and free, And a gentler message send, Where frail flowers and grasses bend, On the sunny lea; For thy bidding still is one, Be it done In tenderness or wrath, on land or sea!



VERSE: EXPECTATION

The King's three daughters stood on the terrace, The hanging terrace, so broad and green, Which keeps the sea from the marble Palace, There was Princess May, and Princess Alice, And the youngest Princess, Gwendoline.

Sighed Princess May, "Will it last much longer, Time throbs so slow and my Heart so quick; And oh, how long is the day in dying; Weary am I of waiting and sighing, For Hope deferred makes the spirit sick."

But Princess Gwendoline smiled and kissed her:- "Am I not sadder than you, my Sister? Expecting joy is a happy pain. The Future's fathomless mine of treasures, All countless hordes of possible pleasures, Might bring their store to my feet in vain."

Sighed Princess Alice as night grew nearer:- "So soon, so soon, is the daylight fled! And oh, how fast comes the dark to-morrow, Who hides, perhaps in her veil of sorrow, The terrible hour I wait and dread!"

But Princess Gwendoline kissed her, sighing,— "It is only Life that can fear dying; Possible loss means possible gain. Those who still dread, are not quite forsaken; But not to fear, because all is taken, Is the loneliest depth of human pain."



VERSE: AN IDEAL

While the grey mists of early dawn Were lingering round the hill, And the dew was still upon the flowers, And the earth lay calm and still, A winged Spirit came to me Noble, and radiant, and free.

Folding his blue and shining wings, He laid his hand on mine. I know not if I felt, or heard The mystic word divine, Which woke the trembling air to sighs, And shone from out his starry eyes.

The word he spoke, within my heart Stirred life unknown before, And cast a spell upon my soul To chain it evermore; Making the cold dull earth look bright, And skies flame out in sapphire light.

When noon ruled from the heavens, and man Through busy day toiled on, My Spirit drooped his shining wings; His radiant smile was gone; His voice had ceased, his grace had flown, His hand grew cold within my own.

Bitter, oh bitter tears, I wept, Yet still I held his hand, Hoping with vague unreasoning hope: I would not understand That this pale Spirit never more Could be what he had been before.

Could it be so? My heart stood still. Yet he was by my side. I strove; but my despair was vain; Vain, too, was love and pride. Could he have changed to me so soon? My day was only at its noon.

Now stars are rising one by one, Through the dim evening air; Near me a household Spirit waits, With tender loving care; He speaks and smiles, but never sings, Long since he lost his shining wings.

With thankful, true content, I know This is the better way; Is not a faithful spirit mine— Mine still—at close of day? . . . Yet will my foolish heart repine For that bright morning dream of mine.



VERSE: OUR DEAD

Nothing is our own: we hold our pleasures Just a little while, ere they are fled: One by one life robs us of our treasures; Nothing is our own except our Dead.

They are ours, and hold in faithful keeping Safe for ever, all they took away. Cruel life can never stir that sleeping, Cruel time can never seize that prey.

Justice pales; truth fades; stars fall from Heaven; Human are the great whom we revere: No true crown of honour can be given, Till we place it on a funeral bier.

How the Children leave us: and no traces Linger of that smiling angel band; Gone, for ever gone; and in their places, Weary men and anxious women stand.

Yet we have some little ones, still ours; They have kept the baby smile we know, Which we kissed one day and hid with flowers, On their dead white faces, long ago.

When our Joy is lost—and life will take it— Then no memory of the past remains; Save with some strange, cruel sting, to make it Bitterness beyond all present pains.

Death, more tender-hearted, leaves to sorrow Still the radiant shadow, fond regret: We shall find, in some far, bright to-morrow, Joy that he has taken, living yet.

Is Love ours, and do we dream we know it, Bound with all our heart-strings, all our own? Any cold and cruel dawn may show it, Shattered, desecrated, overthrown.

Only the dead Hearts forsake us never; Death's last kiss has been the mystic sign Consecrating Love our own for ever, Crowning it eternal and divine.

So when Fate would fain besiege our city, Dim our gold, or make our flowers fall, Death the Angel, comes in love and pity, And to save our treasures, claims them all.



VERSE: A WOMAN'S ANSWER

I will not let you say a Woman's part Must be to give exclusive love alone; Dearest, although I love you so, my heart Answers a thousand claims beside your own.

I love—what do I not love? earth and air Find space within my heart, and myriad things You would not deign to heed, are cherished there, And vibrate on its very inmost strings.

I love the summer with her ebb and flow Of light, and warmth, and music that have nurst Her tender buds to blossoms . . . and you know It was in summer that I saw you first.

I love the winter dearly too, . . . but then I owe it so much; on a winter's day, Bleak, cold, and stormy, you returned again, When you had been those weary months away.

I love the Stars like friends; so many nights I gazed at them, when you were far from me, Till I grew blind with tears . . . those far-off lights Could watch you, whom I longed in vain to see.

I love the Flowers; happy hours lie Shut up within their petals close and fast: You have forgotten, dear: but they and I Keep every fragment of the golden Past.

I love, too, to be loved; all loving praise Seems like a crown upon my Life,—to make It better worth the giving, and to raise Still nearer to your own the heart you take.

I love all good and noble souls;—I heard One speak of you but lately, and for days Only to think of it, my soul was stirred In tender memory of such generous praise.

I love all those who love you; all who owe Comfort to you: and I can find regret Even for those poorer hearts who once could know, And once could love you, and can now forget.

Well, is my heart so narrow—I, who spare Love for all these? Do I not even hold My favourite books in special tender care, And prize them as a miser does his gold?

The Poets that you used to read to me While summer twilights faded in the sky; But most of all I think Aurora Leigh, Because—because—do you remember why?

Will you be jealous? Did you guess before I loved so many things?—Still you the best:- Dearest, remember that I love you more, Oh, more a thousand times than all the rest!



VERSE: THE STORY OF THE FAITHFUL SOUL

FOUNDED ON AN OLD FRENCH LEGEND

The fettered Spirits linger In purgatorial pain, With penal fires effacing Their last faint earthly stain, Which Life's imperfect sorrow Had tried to cleanse in vain.

Yet on each feast of Mary Their sorrow finds release, For the Great Archangel Michael Comes down and bids it cease; And the name of these brief respites Is called "Our Lady's Peace."

Yet once—so runs the Legend— When the Archangel came And all these holy spirits Rejoiced at Mary's name; One voice alone was wailing, Still wailing on the same.

And though a great Te Deum The happy echoes woke, This one discordant wailing Through the sweet voices broke; So when St. Michael questioned, Thus the poor spirit spoke:-

"I am not cold or thankless, Although I still complain; I prize our Lady's blessing Although it comes in vain To still my bitter anguish, Or quench my ceaseless pain.

"On earth a heart that loved me, Still lives and mourns me there, And the shadow of his anguish Is more than I can bear; All the torment that I suffer Is the thought of his despair.

"The evening of my bridal Death took my Life away; Not all Love's passionate pleading Could gain an hour's delay. And he I left has suffered A whole year since that day.

"If I could only see him,— If I could only go And speak one word of comfort And solace,—then, I know He would endure with patience, And strive against his woe."

Thus the Archangel answered:- "Your time of pain is brief, And soon the peace of Heaven Will give you full relief; Yet if his earthly comfort So much outweighs your grief,

"Then, through a special mercy I offer you this grace,— You may seek him who mourns you And look upon his face, And speak to him of comfort For one short minute's space.

"But when that time is ended, Return here, and remain A thousand years in torment, A thousand years in pain: Thus dearly must you purchase The comfort he will gain."

* * *

The Lime-trees' shade at evening Is spreading broad and wide; Beneath their fragrant arches, Pace slowly, side by side, In low and tender converse, A Bridegroom and his Bride.

The night is calm and stilly, No other sound is there Except their happy voices: What is that cold bleak air That passes through the Lime-trees And stirs the Bridegroom's hair?

While one low cry of anguish, Like the last dying wail Of some dumb, hunted creature, Is borne upon the gale:- Why does the Bridegroom shudder And turn so deathly pale?

* * *

Near Purgatory's entrance The radiant Angels wait; It was the great St. Michael Who closed that gloomy gate, When the poor wandering spirit Came back to meet her fate.

* * *

"Pass on," thus spoke the Angel: "Heaven's joy is deep and vast; Pass on, pass on, poor Spirit, For Heaven is yours at last; In that one minute's anguish Your thousand years have passed."



VERSE: A CONTRAST

Can you open that ebony Casket? Look, this is the key: but stay, Those are only a few old letters Which I keep,—to burn some day.

Yes, that Locket is quaint and ancient; But leave it, dear, with the ring, And give me the little Portrait Which hangs by a crimson string.

I have never opened that Casket Since, many long years ago, It was sent me back in anger By one whom I used to know.

But I want you to see the Portrait: I wonder if you can trace A look of that smiling creature Left now in my faded face.

It was like me once; but remember The weary relentless years, And Life, with its fierce, brief Tempests, And its long, long rain of tears.

Is it strange to call it my Portrait? Nay, smile, dear, for well you may, To think of that radiant Vision And of what I am to-day.

With restless, yet confident longing How those blue eyes seem to gaze Into deep and exhaustless Treasures, All hid in the coming days.

With that trust which leans on the Future, And counts on her promised store, Until she has taught us to tremble And hope,—but to trust no more.

How that young, light heart would have pitied Me now—if her dreams had shown A quiet and weary woman With all her illusions flown.

Yet I—who shall soon be resting, And have passed the hardest part, Can look back with a deeper pity On that young unconscious heart.

It is strange; but Life's currents drift us So surely and swiftly on, That we scarcely notice the changes, And how many things are gone:

And forget, while to-day absorbs us, How old mysteries are unsealed; How the old, old ties are loosened, And the old, old wounds are healed.

And we say that our Life is fleeting Like a story that Time has told; But we fancy that we—we only Are just what we were of old.

So now and then it is wisdom To gaze, as I do to-day, At a half-forgotten relic Of a Time that is passed away.

The very look of that Portrait, The Perfume that seems to cling To those fragile and faded letters, And the Locket, and the Ring,

If they only stirred in my spirit Forgotten pleasure and pain,— Why, memory is often bitter, And almost always in vain;

But the contrast of bygone hours Comes to rend a veil away,— And I marvel to see the stranger Who is living in me to-day.



VERSE: THE BRIDE'S DREAM

The stars are gleaming; The maiden sleeps— What is she dreaming? For see—she weeps. By her side is an Angel With folded wings; While the Maiden slumbers The Angel sings: He sings of a Bridal, Of Love, of Pain, Of a heart to be given,— And all in vain; (See, her cheek is flushing, As if with pain;) He telleth of sorrow, Regrets and fears, And the few vain pleasures We buy with tears; And the bitter lesson We learn from years.

The stars are gleaming Upon her brow: What is she dreaming So calmly now? By her side is the Angel With folded wings; She smiles in her slumber The while he sings. He sings of a Bridal, Of Love divine; Of a heart to be laid On a sacred shrine; Of a crown of glory, Where seraphs shine; Of the deep, long rapture The chosen know Who forsake for Heaven Vain joys below, Who desire no pleasure, And fear no woe.

The Bells are ringing, The sun shines clear, The Choir is singing, The guests are here. Before the High Altar Behold the Bride; And a mournful Angel Is by her side. She smiles, all content With her chosen lot,— (Is her last night's dreaming So soon forgot?) And oh, may the Angel Forsake her not! For on her small hand There glitters plain The first sad link Of a life-long chain;— And she needs his guiding Through paths of pain.



VERSE: THE ANGEL'S BIDDING

Not a sound is heard in the Convent; The Vesper Chant is sung, The sick have all been tended, The poor nun's toils are ended Till the Matin bell has rung. All is still, save the Clock, that is ticking So loud in the frosty air, And the soft snow, falling as gently As an answer to a prayer. But an Angel whispers, "Oh, Sister, You must rise from your bed to pray; In the silent, deserted chapel, You must kneel till the dawn of day; For, far on the desolate moorland, So dreary, and bleak, and white, There is one, all alone and helpless, In peril of death to-night.

"No sound on the moorland to guide him, No star in the murky air; And he thinks of his home and his loved ones With the tenderness of despair; He has wandered for hours in the snow-drift, And he strives to stand in vain, And so lies down to dream of his children And never to rise again. Then kneel in the silent chapel Till the dawn of to-morrow's sun, And ask of the Lord you worship For the life of that desolate one; And the smiling eyes of his children Will gladden his heart again, And the grateful tears of God's poor ones Will fall on your soul like rain!—

"Yet, leave him alone to perish, And the grace of your God implore, With all the strength of your spirit, For one who needs it more. Far away, in the gleaming city, Amid perfume, and song, and light, A soul that Jesus has ransomed Is in peril of sin to-night.

"The Tempter is close beside him, And his danger is all forgot, And the far-off voices of childhood Call aloud, but he hears them not; He sayeth no prayer, and his mother— He thinks not of her to-day, And he will not look up to Heaven, And his Angel is turning away.

"Then pray for a soul in peril, A soul for which Jesus died; Ask, by the cross that bore Him, And by her who stood beside; And the Angels of God will thank you, And bend from their thrones of light, To tell you that Heaven rejoices At the deed you have done to-night."



VERSE: SPRING

Hark! the Hours are softly calling, Bidding Spring arise, To listen to the raindrops falling From the cloudy skies, To listen to Earth's weary voices, Louder every day, Bidding her no longer linger On her charmed way; But hasten to her task of beauty Scarcely yet begun; By the first bright day of summer It should all be done. She has yet to loose the fountain From its iron chain; And to make the barren mountain Green and bright again; She must clear the snow that lingers Round the stalks away And let the snowdrop's trembling whiteness See the light of day. She must watch, and warm, and cherish Every blade of green; Till the tender grass appearing From the earth is seen; She must bring the golden crocus From her hidden store; She must spread broad showers of daisies Each day more and more. In each hedgerow she must hasten Cowslips sweet to set; Primroses in rich profusion, With bright dewdrops wet, And under every leaf, in shadow Hide a Violet! Every tree within the forest Must be decked anew And the tender buds of promise Should be peeping through, Folded deep, and almost hidden, Leaf by leaf beside, What will make the Summer's glory, And the Autumn's pride. She must weave the loveliest carpets, Chequered sun and shade, Every wood must have such pathways Laid in every glade; She must hang laburnum branches On each arched bough;— And the white and purple lilac Should be waving now; She must breathe, and cold winds vanish At her breath away; And then load the air around her With the scent of May! Listen then, Oh Spring! nor linger On thy charmed way; Have pity on thy prisoned flowers Wearying for the day. Listen to the raindrops falling From the cloudy skies; Listen to the hours calling Bidding thee arise.



VERSE: EVENING HYMN

The shadows of the evening hours Fall from the darkening sky; Upon the fragrance of the flowers The dews of evening lie: Before Thy throne, O Lord of Heaven, We kneel at close of day; Look on Thy children from on high, And hear us while we pray.

The sorrows of Thy Servants, Lord, Oh, do not Thou despise; But let the incense of our prayers Before Thy mercy rise; The brightness of the coming night Upon the darkness rolls: With hopes of future glory chase The shadows on our souls.

Slowly the rays of daylight fade; So fade within our heart, The hopes in earthly love and joy, That one by one depart: Slowly the bright stars, one by one, Within the Heavens shine;— Give us, Oh, Lord, fresh hopes in Heaven, And trust in things divine.

Let peace, Oh Lord, Thy peace, Oh God, Upon our souls descend; From midnight fears and perils, Thou Our trembling hearts defend; Give us a respite from our toil, Calm and subdue our woes; Through the long day we suffer, Lord, Oh, give us now repose!



VERSE: THE INNER CHAMBER

In the outer Court I was singing, Was singing the whole day long; From the inner chamber were ringing Echoes repeating my song.

And I sang till it grew immortal; For that very song of mine, When re-echoed behind the Portal, Was filled with a life divine.

Was the Chamber a silver round Of arches, whose magical art Drew in coils of musical sound, And cast them back on my heart?

Was there hidden within a lyre Which, as air breathed over its strings, Filled my song with a soul of fire, And sent back my words with wings?

Was some seraph imprisoned there, Whose voice made my song complete, And whose lingering, soft despair, Made the echo so faint and sweet?

Long I trembled and paused—then parted The curtains with heavy fringe; And, half fearing, yet eager-hearted Turned the door on its golden hinge.

Now I sing in the court once more, I sing and I weep all day, As I kneel by the close-shut door, For I know what the echoes say.

Yet I sing not the song of old, Ere I knew whence the echo came, Ere I opened the door of gold; But the music sounds just the same.

Then take warning, and turn away Do not ask of that hidden thing, Do not guess what the echoes say, Or the meaning of what I sing.



VERSE: HEARTS

I.

A trinket made like a Heart, dear, Of red gold, bright and fine, Was given to me for a keepsake, Given to me for mine.

And another heart, warm and tender, As true as a heart could be; And every throb that stirred it Was always and all for me.

Sailing over the waters, Watching the far blue land, I dropped my golden heart, dear, Dropped it out of my hand!

It lies in the cold blue waters, Fathoms and fathoms deep, The golden heart which I promised, Promised to prize and keep.

Gazing at Life's bright visions, So false, and fair, and new, I forgot the other heart, dear, Forgot it and lost it too!

I might seek that heart for ever, I might seek and seek in vain;— And for one short, careless hour, I pay with a life of pain.

II.

The Heart?—Yes I wore it As sign and as token Of a love that once gave it, A vow that was spoken; But a love, and a vow, and a heart Can be broken.

The Love?—Life and Death Are crushed into a day, So what wonder that Love Should as soon pass away— What wonder I saw it Fade, fail, and decay.

The Vow?—why what was it, It snapped like a thread: Who cares for the corpse When the spirit is fled? Then I said, "Let the Dead rise And bury its dead,

"While the true, living future Grows pure, wise, and strong" So I cast the gold heart, I had worn for so long, In the Lake, and bound on it A Stone—and a Wrong!

III.

Look, this little golden Heart Was a true-love shrine For a tress of hair; I held them, Heart and tress, as mine, Like the Love which gave the token See to-day the Heart is broken!

Broken is the golden heart, Lost the tress of hair; Ah, the shrine is empty, vacant, Desolate, and bare! So the token should depart, When Love dies within the heart.

Fast and deep the river floweth, Floweth to the west; I will cast the golden trinket In its cold dark breast,— Flow, oh river, deep and fast, Over all the buried past!



VERSE: TWO LOVES

Deep within my heart of hearts, dear, Bound with all its strings, Two Loves are together reigning Both are crowned like Kings; While my life, still uncomplaining, Rests beneath their wings.

So they both will rule my heart, dear, Till it cease to beat; No sway can be deeper, stronger, Truer, more complete; Growing, as it lasts the longer, Sweeter, and more sweet.

One all life and time transfigures, Piercing through and through Meaner things with magic splendour, Old, yet ever new: This,—so strong and yet so tender,— Is . . . my Love for you.

Should it fail,—forgive my doubting In this world of pain,— Yet my other Love would ever Steadfastly remain; And I know that I could never Turn to that in vain.

Though its radiance may be fainter, Yet its task is wide; For it lives to comfort sorrows, Strengthen, calm, and guide, And from Trust and Honour borrows All its peace and pride.

Will you blame my dreaming even If the first were flown? Ah, I would not live without it, It is all your own: And the other—can you doubt it?— Yours, and yours alone.



VERSE: A WOMAN'S LAST WORD

Well—the links are broken, All is past; This farewell, when spoken, Is the last. I have tried and striven All in vain; Such bonds must be riven, Spite of pain, And never, never, never Knit again.

So I tell you plainly, It must be: I shall try, not vainly, To be free; Truer, happier chances Wait me yet, While you, through fresh fancies, Can forget;— And life has nobler uses Than Regret.

All past words retracing, One by one, Does not help effacing What is done. Let it be. Oh, stronger Links can break! Had we dreamed still longer We could wake,— Yet let us part in kindness For Love's sake.

Bitterness and sorrow Will at last, In some bright to-morrow, Heal their past; But future hearts will never Be as true As mine was—is ever, Dear, for you . . . . . . Then must we part, when loving As we do?



VERSE: PAST AND PRESENT

"Linger," I cried, "oh radiant Time! thy power Has nothing more to give; life is complete: Let but the perfect Present, hour by hour, Itself remember and itself repeat.

"And Love,—the future can but mar its splendour, Change can but dim the glory of its youth; Time has no star more faithful or more tender, To crown its constancy or light its truth."

But Time passed on in spite of prayer or pleading, Through storm and peril; but that life might gain A Peace through strife all other peace exceeding, Fresh joy from sorrow, and new hope from pain.

And since Love lived when all save Love was dying, And, passed through fire, grew stronger than before:- Dear, you know why, in double faith relying, I prize the Past much, but the Present more.



VERSE: FOR THE FUTURE

I wonder did you ever count The value of one human fate; Or sum the infinite amount Of one heart's treasures, and the weight Of Life's one venture, and the whole concentrate purpose of a soul.

And if you ever paused to think That all this in your hands I laid Without a fear:- did you not shrink From such a burthen? half afraid, Half wishing that you could divide the risk, or cast it all aside.

While Love has daily perils, such As none foresee and none control; And hearts are strung so that one touch, Careless or rough, may jar the whole, You well might feel afraid to reign with absolute power of joy and pain.

You well might fear—if Love's sole claim Were to be happy: but true Love Takes joy as solace, not as aim, And looks beyond, and looks above; And sometimes through the bitterest strife first learns to live her highest life.

Earth forges joy into a chain Till fettered Love forgets its strength, Its purpose, and its end;—but Pain Restores its heritage at length, And bids Love rise again and be eternal, mighty, pure, and free.

If then your future life should need A strength my Love can only gain Through suffering, or my heart be freed Only by sorrow, from some stain— Then you shall give, and I will take, this Crown of fire for Love's dear sake.

Sept. 8th, 1860.

THE END