So far, so far to seek for were the limits Of affliction; and men's terror grew a homeless

Terror, yea, and a fatal sense of blankness.

There was no little token of distraction, There was no visible presence of bereavement,

Such as the mourner easeth out his heart

on.

There was no comfort in the slow farewell,
No gentle shutting of beloved eyes,
Nor beautiful broodings over sleeping fea-
tures.

There were no kisses on familiar faces, No weaving of white grave-clothes, no last pondering

Over the still wax cheeks and folded fingers.

There was no putting tokens under pillows, There was no dreadful beauty slowly fading, Fading like moonlight softly into darkness.

There were no churchyard paths to walk on, thinking

How near the well-beloved ones are lying. There were no sweet green graves to sit and muse on,

Till grief should grow a summer meditation,

The shadow of the passing of an angel, And sleeping should seem easy, and not cruel.

Nothing but wondrous parting and a blankness.

But I woke, and, lo! the burthen was uplifted,

And I pray'd within the chamber where she slumber'd,

And my tears flow'd fast and free, but were not bitter.

I eas'd my heart three days by watching near her,

And made her pillow sweet with scent and flowers,

And could bear at last to put her in the darkness.

THE FAERY FOSTER-MOTHER

BRIGHT Eyes, Light Eyes! Daughter of a Fay!

I had not been a wedded wife a twelvemonth and a day,

I had not nurs'd my little one a month upon my knee,

When down among the blue-bell banks rose elfins three times three, They gripp'd me by the raven hair, I could not cry for fear,

They put a hempen rope around my waist and dragg'd me here,

They made me sit and give thee suck as mortal mothers can,

Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! strange and weak and wan!

Pale Thing, Frail Thing! dumb and weak and thin,

Altho' thou ne'er dost utter sigh thou'rt shadow'd with a sin;

Thy minnie scorns to suckle thee, thy minnie is an elf,

Upon a bed of rose's-leaves she lies and fans herself;

And though my heart is aching so for one afar from me,

I often look into thy face and drop a tear for thee,

And I am but a peasant born, a lowly cotter's wife,

Pale Thing, Frail Thing! sucking at my life!

Weak Thing, Meek Thing! take no blame

I'll lean my head against the wall and close my weary eyes,

And think my own babe draws the milk with balmy pants and sighs, And smile and bless my little one and sweetly pass away,

Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! Daughter of a Fay!

THE CHURCHYARD

How slowly creeps the hand of Time
On the old clock's green-mantled face!
Yea, slowly as those ivies climb,

The hours roll round with patient pace;
The drowsy rooks caw on the tower,
The tame doves hover round and round;
Below, the slow grass hour by hour

Makes green God's sleeping-ground.

All moves, but nothing here is swift;

The grass grows deep, the green boughs shoot;

From east to west the shadows drift;

The earth feels heavenward underfoot; The slow stream through the bridge doth stray

With water-lilies on its marge, And slowly, pil'd with scented hay, Creeps by the silent barge.

All stirs, but nothing here is loud :

The cushat broods, the cuckoo cries; Faint, far up, under a white cloud,

The lark trills soft to earth and skies; And underneath the green graves rest; And through the place, with slow foot

falls,

With snowy cambric on his breast,

The old gray Vicar crawls.

And close at hand, to see him come,

Clustering at the playground gate, The urchins of the schoolhouse, dumb And bashful, hang the head and wait ; The little maidens curtsey deep,

The boys their forelocks touch mean-
while,

The Vicar sees them, half asleep,
And smiles a sleepy smile.

Slow as the hand on the clock's face,
Slow as the white cloud in the sky,
He cometh now with tottering pace
To the old vicarage hard by :