And if they trembled like to flowers
That droop across a stream,
The while the silent starry hours

Glide o'er them like a dream;
And if, when came the parting time,
They faltered still and clung;
What is it all?—an ancient rhyme
Ten thousand times besung-
That part of paradise which man
Without the portal knows—

Which hath been since the world began, And shall be till its close.

SYDNEY DOBELL. 1824-1874

THE BALLAD OF KEITH OF RAVELSTON

The murmur of the mourning ghost

That keeps the shadowy kine,

O Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

Ravelston, Ravelston,

The merry path that leads
Down the golden morning hill,
And thro' the silver meads;

Ravelston, Ravelston,

The stile beneath the tree,

The maid that kept her mother's kine,
The song that sang she!

She sang her song, she kept her kine,
She sat beneath the thorn,

When Andrew Keith of Ravelston
Rode thro' the Monday morn.

His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring,
His belted jewels shine;

O Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

Year after year, where Andrew came,
Comes evening down the glade,
And still there sits a moonshine ghost
Where sat the sunshine maid.

Her misty hair is faint and fair,

She keeps the shadowy kine; O Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

I lay my hand upon the stile,
The stile is lone and cold,
The burnie that goes babbling by
Says naught that can be told.

Yet, stranger! here, from year to year,
She keeps her shadowy kine;

O Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

Step out three steps, where Andrew stood

Why blanch thy cheeks for fear?

The ancient stile is not alone,

'Tis not the burn I hear!

She makes her immemorial moan,

She keeps her shadowy kine;

O Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

W. CORY (formerly JOHNSON). 1823-1892

FROM "CALLIMACHUS"

They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead; They brought me bitter news to hear, and bitter tears to shed.

I wept as I remembered how often you and I

Had tired the sun with talking, and sent him down the sky.

And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest,
A handful of grey ashes, long, long ago at rest,
Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake,
For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.

ADELAIDE PROCTER. 1825-1864

A LOST CHORD

Seated one day at the Organ,
I was weary and ill at ease,
And my fingers wandered idly
Over the noisy keys.

I do not know what I was playing,
Or what I was dreaming then ;
But I struck one chord of music,
Like the sound of a great Amen.

It flooded the crimson twilight
Like the close of an Angel's Psalm,
And it lay on my fevered spirit
With a touch of infinite calm.

It quieted pain and sorrow,
Like love overcoming strife;
It seemed the harmonious echo
From our discordant life.

It linked all perplexed meanings
Into one perfect peace,
And trembled away into silence,
As if it were loth to cease.

I have sought, but I seek it vainly,
That one lost chord divine,

Which came from the soul of the Organ,
And entered into mine.