Wilt thou the quiet comfort have?

Thine be it, daily, to the grave!

The courage, shining down from one Whose answering eyes put out the sun?

The tenderness that touched the nerve Like music? Oh, I bid these serve Thee, soothe thee, watchful of thy need While mine is unattended; feed Thy heart while mine goes famished. Glad, I give the dearest thing I had.

Impoverished, can I find or spare Aught else to thee of rich or rare?

Sweet thoughts that through the soul do sing, And deeds like loving hands that cling, And loyal faith--a sentry--nigh, And prayers all rose-clouds hovering high?

Nay, nay; I keep not any. Hold The wealth I leave with fingers cold And trembling in thine own. One thing Alone I do deny to bring And give again to thee. Not now, Nor ever, Dear, shalt thou learn how To wrest it from me. Test thy strength!

By the world's measures, height or length-- Too weak art thou, too weak to gain, By sleight of tenderness or s.n.a.t.c.h of pain --At thine own most or least--to take from me Mine own ideal lost--and saved--of thee.

EURYDICE.

_Listening._

A PICTURE BY BURNE JONES.

I.

As sentient as a wedding-bell, The vibrant air throbs calling her Whose eager body, earwise curved, Leans listening at the heart of h.e.l.l.

She is one nerve of hearing, strained To love and suffer, hope and fear-- Thus, hearkening for her Love, she waits, Whom no man's daring heart has gained.

II.

Oh, to be sound to such an ear!

Song, carol, vesper, comfort near, Sweet words, at sweetest, whispered low, Or dearer silence, happiest so.

By little languages of love Her finer audience to prove; A tenderness untried, to fit To soul and sense so exquisite; The blessed Orpheus to be At last, to such Eurydice!

III.

I listened in h.e.l.l! I listened in h.e.l.l!

Down in the dark I heard your soul Singing mine out to the holy sun.

Deep in the dark I heard your feet Ringing the way of Love in h.e.l.l.

Into the flame you strode and stood.

Out of the flame you bore me well, As I listened in h.e.l.l.

IV.

I listen in h.e.l.l! I listen in h.e.l.l!

Who trod the fire? Where was the scorch?

Clutched, clasped, and saved, what a tale was to tell ----Heaven come down to h.e.l.l!

Oh, like a spirit you strove for my sake!

Oh, like a man you looked back for your own!

Back, though you loved me heavenly well, Back, though you lost me. The G.o.ds did decree, And I listen in h.e.l.l.

ELAINE AND ELAINE.

I.

Dead, she drifted to his feet.

Tell us, Love, is Death so sweet?

Oh! the river floweth deep.

Fathoms deeper is her sleep.

Oh! the current driveth strong.

Wilder tides drive souls along.

Drifting, though he loved her not, To the heart of Launcelot,

Let her pa.s.s; it is her place.

Death hath given her this grace.

Let her pa.s.s; she resteth well.

What her dreams are, who can tell?

Mute the steersman; why, if he Speaketh not a word, should we?

II.

Dead, she drifteth to his feet.

Close, her eyes keep secrets sweet.

Living, he had loved her well.

High as Heaven and deep as h.e.l.l.

Yet that voyage she stayeth not.

Wait you for her, Launcelot?

Oh! the river floweth fast.

Who is justified at last?

Locked her lips are. Hush! If she Sayeth nothing, how should we?

III.

THE POET AND THE POEM.

Upon the city called the Friends'