Could stifle down the gnawing pain, And say, "We still divide our life, She has the rest, and I the strife, And mine the loss, and hers the gain: My ill with bliss for her is rife."

Then turn, and the old duties take-- Alone now--yet with earnest will Gathering sweet sacred traces still To help me on, and, for thy sake, My heart and life and soul to fill.

I think I could check vain weak tears, And toil,--although the world's great s.p.a.ce Held nothing but one vacant place, And see the dark and weary years Lit only by a vanished grace.

And sometimes, when the day was o'er, Call up the tender past again: Its painful joy, its happy pain, And live it over yet once more, And say, "But few more years remain."

And then, when I had striven my best, And all around would smiling say, "See how Time makes all grief decay,"

Would lie down thankfully to rest, And seek thee in eternal day.

II.

But if the day should ever rise-- It could not and it cannot be-- Yet, if the sun should ever see, Looking upon us from his skies, A day that took thy heart from me;

If loving thee still more and more, And still so willing to be blind, I should the bitter knowledge find, That Time had eaten out the core Of love, and left the empty rind;

If the poor lifeless words, at last, (The soul gone, that was once so sweet,) Should cease my eager heart to cheat, And crumble back into the past, And show the whole a vain deceit;

If I should see thee turn away, And know that prayer, and time, and pain, Could no more thy lost love regain, Than bid the hours of dying day Gleam in their mid-day noon again;

If I should loose thy hand, and know That henceforth we must dwell apart, Since I had seen thy love depart, And only count the hours flow By the dull throbbing of my heart;

If I should gaze and gaze in vain Into thine eyes so deep and clear, And read the truth of all my fear Half mixed with pity for my pain, And sorrow for the vanished year;

If not to grieve thee overmuch, I strove to counterfeit disdain, And weave me a new life again, Which thy life could not mar, or touch, And so smile down my bitter pain;

The ghost of my dead Past would rise And mock me, and I could not dare Look to a future of despair, Or even to the eternal skies, For I should still be lonely there.

All Truth, all Honour, then would seem Vain clouds, which the first wind blew by; All Trust, a folly doomed to die; All Life, a useless empty dream; All Love--since thine had failed--a lie.

But see, thy tender smile has cast My fear away: this thought of mine Is treason to my Love and thine; For Love is Life, and Death at last Crowns it eternal and divine!

VERSE: RECOLLECTIONS

As strangers, you and I are here; We both as aliens stand, Where once, in years gone by, I dwelt No stranger in the land.

Then while you gaze on park and stream, Let me remain apart, And listen to the awakened sound Of voices in my heart.

Here, where upon the velvet lawn The cedar spreads its shade, And by the flower-beds all around, Bright roses bloom and fade; Shrill merry childish laughter rings, And baby voices sweet, And by me, on the path, I hear The tread of little feet.

Down the dark avenue of limes, Whose perfume loads the air, Whose boughs are rustling overhead, (For the west wind is there,) I hear the sound of earnest talk, Warnings and counsels wise, And the quick questioning that brought Such gentle calm replies.

Still the light bridge hangs o'er the lake, Where broad-leaved lilies lie, And the cool water shows again The cloud that moves on high;-- And one voice speaks, in tones I thought The past for ever kept; But now I know, deep in my heart Its echoes only slept.

I hear, within the shady porch, Once more, the measured sound Of the old ballads that were read, While we sat listening round; The starry pa.s.sion-flower still Up the green trellice climbs; The tendrils waving seem to keep The cadence of the rhymes.

I might have striven, and striven in vain, Such visions to recall, Well known and yet forgotten; now I see, I hear, them all!

The Present pales before the Past, Who comes with angel wings; As in a dream I stand, amidst Strange yet familiar things!

Enough; so let us go, mine eyes Are blinded by their tears; A voice speaks to my soul to-day Of long forgotten years.

And yet the vision in my heart, In a few hours more, Will fade into the silent past, Silently as before.

VERSE: ILLUSION

Where the golden corn is bending, And the singing reapers pa.s.s, Where the chestnut woods are sending Leafy showers upon the gra.s.s,

The blue river onward flowing Mingles with its noisy strife, The murmur of the flowers growing, And the hum of insect life.

I, from that rich plain was gazing Towards the snowy mountains high, Who their gleaming peaks were raising Up against the purple sky.

And the glory of their shining, Bathed in clouds of rosy light, Set my weary spirit pining For a home so pure and bright!

So I left the plain, and weary, Fainting, yet with hope sustained, Toiled through pathways long and dreary Till the mountain top was gained.

Lo! the height that I had taken, As so shining from below, Was a desolate, forsaken Region of perpetual snow.

I am faint, my feet are bleeding, All my feeble strength is worn, In the plain no soul is heeding, I am here alone, forlorn.

Lights are shining, bells are tolling, In the busy vale below; Near me night's black clouds are rolling, Gathering o'er a waste of snow.

So I watch the river winding Through the misty fading plain, Bitter are the tear-drops blinding, Bitter useless toil and pain-- Bitterest of all the finding That my dream was false and vain!

VERSE: A VISION

Gloomy and black are the cypress trees, Drearily waileth the chill night breeze.

The long gra.s.s waveth, the tombs are white, And the black clouds flit o'er the chill moonlight.

Silent is all save the dropping rain, When slowly there cometh a mourning train, The lone churchyard is dark and dim, And the mourners raise a funeral hymn:

"Open, dark grave, and take her; Though we have loved her so, Yet we must now forsake her, Love will no more awake her: (Oh, bitter woe!) Open thine arms and take her To rest below!

"Vain is our mournful weeping, Her gentle life is o'er; Only the worm is creeping, Where she will soon be sleeping, For evermore-- Nor joy nor love is keeping For her in store!"

Gloomy and black are the cypress trees, And drearily wave in the chill night breeze.

The dark clouds part and the heavens are blue, Where the trembling stars are shining through.

Slowly across the gleaming sky, A crowd of white angels are pa.s.sing by.

Like a fleet of swans they float along, Or the silver notes of a dying song.

Like a cloud of incense their pinions rise, Fading away up the purple skies.

But hush! for the silent glory is stirred, By a strain such as earth has never heard: