WELL? And I said, "The thing is precious to me; 39 They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay; It lies on her heart, and lost must be, If I do not take it away." As I stretched my hand I held my breath; I thought at first, as my touch fell there, It had warmed that heart to life, with love; For the first thing I touched was warm, I swear, And I could feel it move. "Twas the hand of a man that was moving slow O'er the heart of the dead-from the other side, And at once the sweat broke o'er my brow; "Who is robbing the corpse?” I cried. Opposite me, by the taper's light, The friend of my bosom, the man I loved, Stood over the corpse, and all as white, And neither of us moved. "What do you here, my friend?" The man Looked first at me, and then at the dead; "There is a portrait here," he began. "There is-It is mine," I said. Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours, no doubt, The portrait was till a month ago, When this suffering angel took that out, "This woman, she loved me well," said I. We found the portrait there in the place, One nail drives out another, at least! "The face of the portrait there," I cried, "Is our friend, the Raphael-faced young priest Who confessed her when she died." OWEN MEREDITH. TIME TURNS THE TABLES. Ten years ago when she was ten, I liked her, she would fetch my book, TIME TURNS THE TABLES. She'd mend my cap or find my whip, 41 She loved me then, but Heaven knows why, For scores of dolls she had to cry, I tore her frocks, I mussed her hair, Well, now I expiate my crime- I'm twenty-five, she's twenty now, Of yore I used her Christian name, The letters that spell "Alice." I who could laugh at her and tease, Dumb through the very wish to please- Or, if she turns to me to speak, I'm dazzled by her graces; The hot blood rushes to my cheek, I babble commonplaces. She's kind, and cool; ah, Heaven knows how I wish she blushed and faltered! She likes me and I love her now. A COMMON STORY. So the truth's out! I'll grasp it like a snake— It will not slay me. My heart shall not break Awhile, if only for the children's sake. For his, too, somewhat. Let him stand unblamed; None say he gave me less than honor claimed, Except one trifle scarcely worth being named The heart. That's gone. The corrupt dead might be As easily raised up, breathing, fair to see, As he could bring his whole heart back to me. A COMMON STORY. 43 I never sought him in coquettish sports, I only loved him-any woman would; I was so happy I could make him blest! Ah me! if only then he had been true! He had given me love for love, as was my due. For he had told me, ere the deed was done, Oh, had he whispered, when his sweetest kiss It were less bitter! Sometimes I could weep So I built my house upon another's ground; |