THE golden glow from the west had fled,

The star-flowers lit the sky,

Though the queen white rose of evening spread
No blossom yet on high;

Her leaves of light were unclosing soft
And pale in crescent bud

Behind the willows, whose bent boughs oft

Dipp'd in the dusky flood.

Sad eyes seek over the scene around-
Clear eyes of azure light,

Yet sadder than if tear-dimm'd and drown'd
On that midsummer night.

Thus I, with my own lips, set him free
Whom I had deem'd mine own!

Thus my own words banish'd him from me,
And I stand here alone,

Where last midsummer I stood with him;
Now farther off it seems

Than the sea beyond the sky-line dim,
Unreal as fever'd dreams.

He call'd me "pure as the stars" that eve,
"Pure as the stars above;"

While my soul seem'd all of earth to leave,

Borne upwards by his love.

THIRD SERIES, VOL. VIII. F.S. VOL. XXVIII.

N

'On another night, with sterner tone, With dark averted eye,

He said, as he left me here alone,
"Cold as the stars! Good-bye!"
Still haunting words! Yet it may be best,
O heart so passion-toss'd!
"Cold as the stars!" Ah, he never guess'd
What my calm accents cost!

It may be best; for if he had known,
Would he have said "Good-bye"?
Would he have left me for ever lone,
Had I not look'd a lie?

'Had I not seem'd calm, serene-alas,
Calm as the grave must be !—
As I said, "Take back the love that was
Not yours to pledge to me!"

Was it well done? were the words well said
That thrust us two apart?

My set soul wavers now he is dead,

O lost love of my heart!

In life and in death you never knew,

What only I could tell,

That I loved you, and never but you!
O love, have I done well?'

Are they watching me who watch alone,

The night-breeze on my brow?

O calm stars, cold as glacier springs,
Ye cannot pity me!

Ye will not tell me of the things
That must be known to ye.

If I could but hush one haunting thought
That rankles in my breast;

If I could dream that my love had brought
His stormy spirit rest!

Tear down the veil, let the truth be shown:
I never won his soul;

He gave me, when he was most my own,
A part, but not the whole.

No need of portrait nor hidden curl,
It needs no signs to tell

He never forgot the gold-hair'd girl
Whom once he loved so well.

I know that hers was the right divine,
From me so far apart;

For woman's beauty was never mine-
God help my woman's heart!
What wonder my soul I yielded up
To him who taught me first

To love, whose hand held the brimming cup
Of life to lips athirst?

What wonder if of his love I drank,

As of the cooling wave?

I know not what he withheld—I thank
Him for the all he gave.

For a loyal tenderness and true,

An accent ever kind;

Yet, O my love, was it well for you
With mine your life to bind?

Was my love your prison, not your home?
And did I stand between

You and a future that might have come,

A bliss that might have been?

I shall never know, I cry in vain;
Closed is the iron door;

You will wake and call for me again.

No more, no more, no more!'

IZA HARDY.