La Grisette

A manly form at her side she saw,

And joy was duty and love was law.

Then she took up her burden of life again,
Saying only, "It might have been."

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge,
For rich repiner and household drudge!

God pity them both! and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: "It might have been!"

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes;

And, in the hereafter, angels may

Roll the stone from its grave away!

889

John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892]

LA GRISETTE

Ан, Clemence! when I saw thee last
Trip down the Rue de Seine,
And turning, when thy form had passed,
I said, "We meet again,"-

I dreamed not in that idle glance

Thy latest image came,

And only left to memory's trance

A shadow and a name.

The few strange words my lips had taught

Thy timid voice to speak,

Their gentler signs, which often brought

Fresh roses to thy cheek,

The trailing of thy long loose hair

Bent o'er my couch of pain,

All, all returned, more sweet, more fair;
Oh, had we met again!

I walked where saint and virgin keep
The vigil lights of Heaven,

I knew that thou hadst woes to weep,
And sins to be forgiven;

I watched where Genevieve was laid,
I knelt by Mary's shrine,
Beside me low, soft voices prayed;
Alas! but where was thine?

And when the morning sun was bright,
When wind and wave were calm,
And flamed, in thousand-tinted light,
The rose of Notre Dame,

I wandered through the haunts of men,
From Boulevard to Quai,
Till, frowning o'er Saint Etienne,
The Pantheon's shadow lay.

In vain, in vain; we meet no more,
Nor dream what fates befall;
And long upon the stranger's shore

My voice on thee may call,

When years have clothed the line in moss
That tells thy name and days,

And withered, on thy simple cross,

The wreaths of Père-la-Chaise!

Oliver Wendell Iolmes [1809-1894]

THE DARK MAN

ROSE o' the World, she came to my bed

And changed the dreams of my heart and head;

For joy of mine she left grief of hers,

And garlanded me with a crown of furze.

Rose o' the World, they go out and in,
And watch me dream amd my mother spin;
And they pity the tears on my sleeping face
While my soul's away in a fairy place.

Eurydice

Rose o' the World, they have words galore,
And wide's the swing of my mother's door:
And soft they speak of my darkened eyes→→→
But what do they know, who are all so wise?

Rose o' the World, the pain you give
Is worth all days that a man may live
Worth all shy prayers that the colleens say
On the night that darkens the wedding-day.

Rose o' the World, what man would wed
When he might dream of your face instead?
Might go to the grave with the blessed pain
Of hungering after your face again?

Rose o' the World, they may talk their fill,
For dreams are good, and my life stands still
While their lives' red ashes the gossips stir;
But my fiddle knows-and I talk to her.

Nora Hopper [18

EURYDICE

HE came to call me back from death
To the bright world above.

I hear him yet with trembling breath
Low calling, "O sweet love!

Come back! The earth is just as fair;
The flowers, the open skies are there;
Come back to life and love!"

Oh! all my heart went out to him,
And the sweet air above.

With happy tears my eyes were dim;
I called him, "O sweet love!

I come, for thou art all to me.
Go forth, and I will foliow thee,
Right back to life and love!"

891

I followed through the cavern black;
I saw the blue above.

Some terror turned me to look back:

I heard him wail, "O love!

What hast thou done! What hast thou done!"

And then I saw no more the sun,

And lost were life and love.

Francis William Bourdillon [1852

A WOMAN'S THOUGHT

I AM a woman—therefore I may not

Call to him, cry to him,

Fly to him,

Bid him delay not!

Then when he comes to me, I must sit quiet:

Still as a stone

All silent and cold.

If my heart riot

Crush and defy it!

Should I grow bold,

Say one dear thing to him,

All my life fling to him,
Cling to him-

What to atone

Is enough for my sinning!
This were the cost to me,
This were my winning-
That he were lost to me.

Not as a lover

At last if he part from me,
Tearing my heart from me,
Hurt beyond cure,-

Calm and demure

Then must I hold me,

In myself fold me,

Lest he discover;

She has loved and been loved so often
In her long, immortal years,

That she tires of the worn-out rapture,
Sickens of hopes and fears.

No joys or sorrows move her,
Done with her ancient pride;
For her head she found too heavy
The crown she has cast aside.

Clothed in her scarlet splendor,
Bright with her glory of hair,
Sad that she is not mortal,-

Eternally sad and fair,