WHEN I REMEMBER.

HEN I remember something which I had,

WHE

But which is gone, and I must do without, I sometimes wonder how I can be glad, Even in cowslip time when hedges sprout; It makes me sigh to think on it but yet My days will not be better days, should I forget.

When I remember something promised me,

But which I never had, nor can have now, Because the promiser we no more see

In countries that accord with mortal vow; When I remember this, I mourn, — but yet My happier days are not the days when I forget.

COMFORT IN THE NIGHT.

SHE thought by heaven's high wall that she did

stray

Till she beheld the everlasting gate;

And she climbed up to it to long, and wait,
Feel with her hands (for it was night,) and lay
Her lips to it with kisses; thus to pray
That it might open to her desolate.
And lo! it trembled, lo! her passionate
Crying prevailed. A little, little way

It opened; there fell out a thread of light,
And she saw winged wonders move within;
Also she heard sweet talking as they meant
To comfort her. They said, "Who comes to-night
Shall one day certainly an entrance win;"
Then the gate closed and she awoke content.

REGRET.

THAT word Regret !

There have been nights and morns when we have sighed,

"Let us alone, Regret! We are content

To throw thee all our past, so thou wilt sleep
For aye." But it is patient, and it wakes ;
It hath not learned to cry itself to sleep,
But plaineth on the bed that it is hard.

We did amiss when we did wish it gone
And over sorrows humanize our race;
Tears are the showers that fertilize this world:
And memory of things precious keepeth warm
The heart that once did hold them. They are poor
That have lost nothing: they are poorer far
Who, losing, have forgotten: they most poor
Of all, who lose and wish they might forget.
For life is one, and in its warp and woof
There runs a thread of gold that glitters fair,
And sometimes in the pattern shows most sweet
Where there are sombre colors. It is true

That we have wept. But O! this thread of gold,

LOVE'S THREAD OF GOLD.

We would not have it tarnish; let us turn
Oft and look back upon the wondrous web,
And when it shineth sometimes we shall know
That memory is possession.

HAPPY years are short.

LOVE.

61

WHO veileth love should first have vanquished fate.

She folded up the dream in her deep heart,

Her fair full lips were silent on that smart, Thick fringed eyes did on the grasses wait. What good? One eloquent blush, but one, and straight The meaning of a life was known; for art Is often foiled in playing nature's part,

And time holds nothing long inviolate.

Earth's buried seed springs up - slowly, or fast:
The ring came home, that one in ages past
Flung to the keeping of unfathomed seas:
And golden apples on the mystic trees
Were sought and found, and borne away at last,
Though watched of the divine Hesperides.

LOVE'S THREAD OF GOLD.

N the night she told a story,

IN

In the night and all night through,
While the moon was in her glory,
And the branches dropped with dew.

'T was my life she told, and round it
Rose the years as from a deep;
In the world's great heart she found it,
Cradled like a child asleep.

In the night I saw her weaving
By the misty moonbeams cold,
All the weft her shuttle cleaving
With a sacred thread of gold.
Ah! she wept me tears of sorrow,
Lulling tears so mystic sweet ;
Then she wove my last to-morrow,
And her web lay at my feet.
Of my life she made the story:
- so soon 't was told!

I must weep

But your name did lend it glory,

And your love its thread of gold.

WE

FAILURE.

E are much bound to them that do succeed: But, in a more pathetic sense, are bound To such as fail. They all our loss expound; They comfort us for work that will not speed, And life itself a failure.

Ay, his deed,

Sweetest in story, who the dusk profound,
Of Hades flooded with entrancing sound,
Music's own tears, was failure. Doth it read

Therefore the worse? Ah, no! so much to dare,

LOVE AND PEACE.

He fronts the regnant Darkness on its throne.
So much to do; impetuous even then,

He pours out love's disconsolate sweet moan
He wins; but few for that his deed recall:
Its power is in the look which costs him all.

63

ONE

LOVE AND PEACE.

NE morning, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved,

All the birds were singing blithely, as if never they

would cease;

'Twas a thrush sang in my garden,

hear the story!

"Hear the story,

And the lark sang, "Give us glory!"
And the dove said, "Give us peace!"

Then I listened, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved,

To that murmur from the woodland of the dove, my dear, the dove;

When the nightingale came after, "Give us fame to sweeten duty!

When the wren sang, "Give us beauty!"

She made answer, "Give us love!"

Sweet is spring, and sweet the morning, my beloved, my beloved:

Now for us doth spring, doth morning, wait upon the year's increase,