IV.

So, when Life looked upward, being
Warmed and breathed on from above,
What sight could she have for seeing,
Evermore... but only Love?

INCLUSIONS.

I.

OH, wilt thou have my hand, Dear, to lie along in thine?
As a little stone in a running stream, it seems to lie and pine!
Now drop the poor pale hand, Dear, . . . unfit to plight with thine.

II.

Oh, wilt thou have my cheek, Dear, drawn closer to thine own? My cheek is white, my cheek is worn, by many a tear run down. Now leave a little space, Dear, lest it should wet thine own.

III.

Oh, must thou have my soul, Dear, commingled with thy soul?— Red grows the cheek, and warm the hand, ... the part is in the whole ! . . .

Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate, when soul is joined to soul

INSUFFICIENCY.

I.

THERE is no one beside thee, and no one above thee;
Thou standest alone, as the nightingale sings !

Yet my words that would praise thee, are impotent things,
For none can express thee, though all should approve thee!
I love thee so, Dear, that I only can love thee.

II.

Say, what can I do for thee? . . . weary thee . . . grieve thee?
Lean on thy shoulder ... new burdens to add?...
Weep my tears over thee . . . making thee sad?
Oh, hold me not-love me not! let me retrieve thee!
I love thee so, Dear, that I only can leave thee.

A DEAD ROSE.

I.

O ROSE! Who dares to name thee?

No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet;
But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubble-wheat,-
Kept seven years in a drawer-thy titles shame thee.

II.

The breeze that used to blow thee
Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away

An odour up the lane to last all day,

If breathing now,-unsweetened would forego thee.

III.

The sun that used to smite thee, And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,

Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn,— If shining now,-with not a hue would light thee.

IV.

The dew that used to wet thee,

And, white first, grow incarnadined, because

It lay upon thee where the crimson was,

If dropping now,

would darken where it met thee.

V.

The fly that lit upon thee,

To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet,
Along thy leaf's pure edges, after heat,-

If lighting now,-would coldly overrun thee,

VI.

The bee that once did suck thee,
And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,
And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,-
If passing now,-would blindly overlook thee.

VII.

The heart doth recognise thee,

Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet,
Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete,—
Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee.

VIII.

Yes, and the heart doth owe thee

More love, dead rose! than to such roses bold
As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold !—

Lie still upon this heart-which breaks below thee!

THE EXILE'S RETURN.

I.

WHEN from thee, weeping, I removed,
And from my land for years,

I thought not to return, Beloved.
With those same parting tears,
I come again to hill and lea,
Weeping for thee.

II.

I clasped thine hand, when standing last
Upon the shore in sight.

The land is green, the ship is fast,

I shall be there to-night!

I shall be there-no longer we—
No more with thee.

III.

Had I beheld thee dead and still,

I might more clearly know,

How heart of thine could turn as chill

As hearts by nature so;

How change could touch the falsehood-free
And changeless thee!

IV.

But now thy tender looks last-seen
Within my soul remain,

'Tis hard to think that they have been, .
To be no more again—

That I shall vainly wait-ah me!

A word from thee.

V.

I could not bear to look upon
That mound of funeral clay,

Where one sweet voice is silence,—one
Ethereal brow decay;

Where all thy mortal I might see,

But never thee.

VI.

For thou art where all friends are gone,
Whose parting pain is o'er :
And I, who love and weep alone,
Where thou wilt weep no more,
Weep bitterly and selfishly,

For me, not thee.

VII.

I know, Beloved, thou canst not know

That I endure this pain!

For saints in Heaven, the Scriptures show,

Can never grieve again—

And grief, thou knewest mine, would be Still shared by thee!

THE SLEEP.

"He giveth His beloved sleep."-PSALM CXxvii, 2.

I.

Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward unto souls afar,

Along the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if that any is,

For gift or grace, surpassing this-
"He giveth His beloved, sleep"?

II.

What would we give to our beloved ?—
The hero's heart, to be unmoved,
The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep,
The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse,

The monarch's crown, to light the brows."He giveth His beloved, sleep."

III.

What do we give to our beloved ?--

A little faith, all undisproved,

A little dust, to overweep,

And bitter memories, to make

The whole earth blasted for our sake -

"He giveth His beloved, sleep."

IV.

"Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say,

But have no tune to charm away

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep:

But never doleful dream again

Shall break the happy slumber, when

"He giveth His beloved, sleep."