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HE wanton troopers, riding by,

Have shot my fawn, and it will die.
Ungentle men! they cannot thrive
Who killed thee : thou ne'er didst, alive,
Them any harm : alas! nor could
Thy death yet do them any good.
I'm sure I never wished them ill;
Nor do I for all this—nor will
But, if my simple prayers may yet

Prevail with Heaven to forget
Thy murder, I will join my tears
Rather than fail. But, O my fears !
It cannot die so: Heaven's King
Keeps register of everything;
And nothing we may use in vain,
Ev'n beasts must be with justice slain.

With sweetest milk, and sugar, first
I it at my own fingers nurst;
And as it grew, so every day
It waxed more white and sweet than they.
It had so sweet a breath! and oft
It blushed, to see its foot more soft
And white, than-shall I say my hand ?
Nay any lady's of the land.
It is a wondrous thing, how fleet
'Twas on those little silver feet!
With what a pretty skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race;



And when 't had left me far away,
'Twould stay, and run again, and stay :
For was it nimbler much than hinds;
And trod as if on the four winds.

I have a garden of my own,
But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you would it guess
To be a little wilderness :
And all the spring-time of the year
It only loved to be there.
Among the bed of lilies, I
Have sought it oft, where it should lie;
Yet could not, till itself should rise,
Find it although before my eyes :
For in the flaxen lilies' shade,
It like a band of lilies laid.
Upon the roses it would feed,
Until its lips e'en seem'd to bleed ;
And then to me would boldly trip,
And print those roses on my lip.



THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death,

And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,

And the flowers that grow between.

“Shall I have naught that is fair ?" saith he;

“Have naught but the bearded grain ? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,

I will give them all back again."

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,

He kissed their drooping leaves;
It was for the Lord of Paradise

He bound them in his sheaves.

“My Lord has need of these flowrets gay,”

The Reaper said, and smiled ;
“Dear tokens of the earth are they,

Where He was once a child.

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And the mother gave, in

tears and pain, The flowers she most did

love; She knew she should find

them all again In the fields of light




This is a curl of our poor “Splendid's” hair!
A sunny burst of rare and ripe young gold-
A ring of sinless gold that weds two worlds !
Our one thing left with her dear life in it.
Poor Misers ! o'er it secretly we sum
Our little savings hoarded up in heaven,-
Our rich love-thoughts heart-hid to doat upon,-
And glimpse our lost heaven in a flood of tears.

We stood at midnight in the Presence dread.
At midnight, when men die, we strove with Death
To wrench our jewel from his grasping hand.
Ere the soul loosed from its last ledge of life,
Her little face peered round with anxious eyes;
Then, seeing all the old faces, dropped content.

The mystery dilated in her look,
Which, on the darkening death-ground, faintly caught
The likeness of the angel shining near.
Her passing soul flashed back a glimpse of bliss.
A crown of conquest bound her baby-brow;
Her little hands could take the heirdom large;
And all her childhood's vagrant royalty
Sat staid and calm in some eternal throne.
Love's kiss is sweet, but Death's doth make immortal.

And there our darling lay in coffined calm,
Dressed for the grave in raiment like the snow;
And o'er her flowed the white eternal peace :

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