"Dear Lord!" she saith, "to many a home From wind and wave the wanderers come; I only see the tossing foam

Of stranger keels.

But, with her heart, if not her ear,
The old loved voice she seemed to hear:
"I wait to meet thee: be of cheer
For all is well!"

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

TO LUCASTA.

IF to be absent were to be

Away from thee;

Or that, when I am gone,
You or I were alone;

Then, my Lucasta, might I crave

Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave.

But I'll not sigh one blast or gale
To swell my sail,

Or pay a tear to 'suage

The foaming blue-god's rage;
For, whether he will let me pass
Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.

Though seas and lands be 'twixt us both,
Our faith and troth,

Like separated souls,

All time and space controls: Above the highest sphere we meet,

Unseen, unknown; and greet as angels greet.

So, then, we do anticipate

Our after-fate,

I hear her in the tunefu' birds,

I hear her charm the air; There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green, There's not a bonnie bird that sings, But minds me of my Jean.

"

ROBERT BURNS.

LOVE'S MEMORY.

FROM ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL."

I AM undone there is no living, none,
If Bertram be away. It were all one,
That I should love a bright particular star,
And think to wed it, he is so above me:
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:
The hind that would be mated by the lion
Must die for love. "Twas pretty, though a plague,
To see him ev'ry hour; to sit and draw
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
In our heart's table, — heart too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favor:
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his relics.

SHAKESPEARE.

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,

Gin I hae been to thee

As closely twined wi' earliest thochts
As ye hae been to me?

O, tell me gin their music fills

Thine ear as it does mine!

O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit
Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I've wandered east, I've wandered west.
I've borne a weary lot;

But in my wanderings, far or near,
Ye never were forgot.

The fount that first burst frae this heart
Still travels on its way;

And channels deeper, as it rins,
The luve o' life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sindered young
I've never seen your face nor heard
The music o' your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness.

And happy could I die,

Did I but ken your heart still dreamed
O' bygone days and me!

THERE lived a singer in France of old
By the tideless, dolorous, midland sea.
In a land of sand and ruin and gold

There shone one woman, and none but she.
And finding life for her love's sake fail,
Being fain to see her, he bade set sail,
Touched land, and saw her as life grew cold,
And praised God, seeing; and so died he.

Died, praising God for his gift and grace:
For she bowed down to him weeping, and said,
"Live"; and her tears were shed on his face
Or ever the life in his face was shed.
The sharp tears fell through her hair, and stung
Once, and her close lips touched him and clung
Once, and grew one with his lips for a space;
And so drew back, and the man was dead.

O brother, the gods were good to you.
Sleep, and be glad while the world endures.
Be well content as the years wear through;
Give thanks for life, and the loves and lures;
Give thanks for life, O brother, and death,
For the sweet last sound of her feet, her breath,
For gifts she gave you, gracious and few,
Tears and kisses, that lady of yours.

Rest, and be glad of the gods; but I,
How shall I praise them, or how take rest?
There is not room under all the sky

For me that know not of worst or best,
Dream or desire of the days before,
Sweet things or bitterness, any more.
Love will not come to me now though I die,
As love came close to you, breast to breast.

I shall never be friends again with roses;

I shall loathe sweet tunes, where a note grown strong

Relents and recoils, and climbs and closes,

As a wave of the sea turned back by song. There are sounds where the soul's delight takes fire, Face to face with its own desire;

A delight that rebels, a desire that reposes;
I shall hate sweet music my whole life long.

The pulse of war and passion of wonder,

The heavens that murmur, the sounds that shine,

The stars that sing and the loves that thunder,
The music burning at heart like wine,

An armed archangel whose hands raise up
All senses mixed in the spirit's cup,

Till flesh and spirit are molten in sunder, -
These things are over, and no more mine.

These were a part of the playing I heard

Once, ere my love and my heart were at strife; Love that sings and hath wings as a bird,

Balm of the wound and heft of the knife.
Fairer than earth is the sea, and sleep
Than overwatching of eyes that weep,
Now time has done with his one sweet word,
The wine and leaven of lovely life.

I shall go my ways, tread out my measure,
Fill the days of my daily breath
With fugitive things not good to treasure,
Do as the world doth, say as it saith;
But if we had loved each other - O sweet,
Had you felt, lying under the palms of your feet,
The heart of my heart, beating harder with pleasure
To feel you tread it to dust and death

Ah, had I not taken my life up and given
All that life gives and the years let go,
The wine and money, the balm and leaven,

The dreams reared high and the hopes brought low,

Come life, come death, not a word be said;
Should I lose you living, and vex you dead?
I shall never tell you on earth; and in heaven,
If I cry to you then, will you hear or know?

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

DAY, IN MELTING PURPLE DYING

DAY, in melting purple dying; Blossoms, all around me sighing; Fragrance, from the lilies straying; Zephyr, with my ringlets playing; Ye but waken my distress;

I am sick of loneliness!

Thou, to whom I love to hearken,
Come, ere night around me darken;
Though thy softness but deceive me,
Say thou 'rt true, and I'll believe thee;
Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent,

Let me think it innocent !

Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure;
All I ask is friendship's pleasure;
Let the shining ore lie darkling, -
Bring no gem in lustre sparkling;

Gifts and gold are naught to me,
I would only look on thee!
Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling,
Ecstasy but in revealing;
Paint to thee the deep sensation,
Rapture in participation ;

Yet but torture, if comprest
In a lone, unfriended breast.

Absent still! Ah! come and bless me !
Let these eyes again caress thee.
Once in caution, I could fly thee;
Now, I nothing could deny thee.

In a look if death there be,
Come, and I will gaze on thee!

MARIA BROOKS

BY THE ALMA RIVER.
WILLIE, fold your little hands;
Let it drop, that "soldier" toy;
Look where father's picture stands,
Father, that here kissed his boy
Not a month since, father kind,
Who this night may (never mind
Mother's sob, my Willie dear)
Cry out loud that He may hear
Who is God of battles, cry,
"God keep father safe this day
By the Alma River!"

Ask no more, child. Never heed
Either Russ, or Frank, or Turk;
Right of nations, trampled creed,
Chance-poised victory's bloody work;
Any flag i' the wind may roll
On thy heights, Sevastopol !