He hid his face amid the shades of death.
I waste for him my breath

Who wasted his for me; but mine returns,
And this lorn bosom burns

With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,
And waking me to weep

Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years
Wept he as bitter tears.

"Merciful God!" such was his latest prayer,

These may she never share!"

Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold
Than daisies in the mould,

Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate,

His name and life's brief date

Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er ye be,

And O! pray too for me!

20

1834.

Walter Savage Landor.

REQUIESCAT

STREW on her roses, roses,
And never a spray of yew!
In quiet she reposes;

Ah, would that I did too!

Her mirth the world required;
She bathed it in smiles of glee.
But her heart was tired, tired,
And now they let her be.

1853.

Her life was turning, turning,
In mazes of heat and sound.
But for peace her soul was yearning,
And now peace laps her round.

Her cabin'd, ample spirit,

It flutter'd and fail'd for breath.
To-night it doth inherit

The vasty hall of death.

12

16

Matthew Arnold.

EVELYN HOPE

BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead!
Sit and watch by her side an hour.
That is her book-shelf, this her bed;
She plucked that piece of geranium-flower,
Beginning to die too, in the glass;

Little has yet been changed, I think:
The shutters are shut, no light may pass
Save two long rays through the hinge's
chink.

Sixteen years old when she died!

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name;
It was not her time to love; beside,
Her life had many a hope and aim,

Duties enough and little cares,

And now was quiet, now astir,

Till God's hand beckoned unawares,—
And the sweet white brow is all of her.

8

16

Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope?

What, your soul was pure and true, The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit, fire and dew— And, just because I was thrice as old

And our paths in the world diverged so wide. Each was naught to each, must I be told? We were fellow mortals, naught beside? 24

No, indeed! for God above

Is great to grant, as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love: I claim you still, for my own love's sake! Delayed it may be for more lives yet, Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few: Much is to learn, much to forget

Ere the time be come for taking you.

But the time will come,-at last it will,
When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall
say)

In the lower earth, in the years long still,
That body and soul so pure and gay?
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine,
And your mouth of your own geranium's
red-

And what you would do with me, in fine,
In the new life come in the old life's stead.

I have lived (I shall say) so much since then, Given up myself so many times,

32

Gained me the gains of various men,
Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope,
Either I missed or itself missed me:
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!
What is the issue? Let us see!

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while!

My heart seemed full as it could hold; There was place and to spare for the frank young smile,

And the red young mouth, and the hair's
young gold.

So, hush, I will give you this leaf to keep:
See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand!
There, that is our secret: go to sleep!
You will wake, and remember, and under-
stand.

1855.

56

48

Robert Browning.

MAY AND DEATH

I WISH that when you died last May,
Charles, there had died along with you
Three parts of Spring's delightful things;
Ay, and, for me, the fourth part too.

A foolish thought, and worse, perhaps !
There must be many a pair of friends

4

Who, arm in arm, deserve the warm
Moon-births and the long evening-ends. 8

So, for their sake, be May still May!
Let their new time, as mine of old,
Do all it did for me: I bid

Sweet sights and sounds throng manifold. 12

Only, one little sight, one plant,

Woods have in May, that starts up green Save a sole streak which, so to speak, Is Spring's blood, spilt its leaves between,

16

That, they might spare; a certain wood Might miss the plant; their loss were small:

But I,-whene'er the leaf grows there,

1857

Its drop comes from my heart, that's all. 20
Robert Browning.

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS

"Drowned! drowned!"-HAMLET

ONE more Unfortunate,

Weary of breath,

Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashioned so slenderly,

Young, and so fair!