And be as one who speechless stands
In rapture at some perfect grace :
My love, my hope, my all shall be
To look to heaven and look to thee.

Thine eyes shall be the heavenly lights;

Thy voice shall be the summer breeze,
What time it sways, on moonlit nights,
The murmuring tops of leafy trees;
And I will touch thy beauteous form
In June's red roses rich and warm.

But thou-thyself-shalt not come down
From that pure region far above;
But keep thy throne and wear thy crown,
Queen of my heart and queen of love :
A monarch in thy realm complete,
And I a monarch at thy feet!

AFTER ALL.

The apples are ripe in the orchard,
The work of the reaper is done;
And the golden woodlands redden
In the blood of the dying sun.

At the cottage-door the grandsire
Sits, pale, in his easy chair,
While a gentle wind of twilight
Plays with his silver hair.

A woman is kneeling beside him;
A fair young head is press'd,
In the first wild passion of sorrow,
Against his agèd breast.

And far from over the distance

The faltering echoes come

Of the flying blast of trumpet

And the rattling roll of drum.

Then the grandsire speaks in a whisper : "The end no man can see,

But we give him to his Country,

And we give our prayers to Thee!"

The violets star the meadows,
The rose-buds fringe the door,

And over the grassy orchard

The pink-white blossoms pour.

But the grandsire's chair is empty,

The cottage is dark and still;

There's a nameless grave on the battle-field, And a new one under the hill.

And a pallid tearless woman

By the cold hearth sits alone; And the old clock in the corner Ticks on with a steady drone.

THE LAST SCENE.

Here she lieth, white and chill:
Put your hand upon her brow!

Her sad heart is very still,

And she does not know you now.

Ah! the grave's a quiet bed:

She will sleep a pleasant sleep,

And the tears that you may shed

Will not wake her, therefore weep!

Weep! for you have wrought her woe; Mourn she mourn'd and died for you:

Ah! too late we come to know

What is false and what is true.

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
1836-

PALABRAS CARIÑOSAS.

Good-night! I have to say good-night
To such a host of peerless things!
Good-night unto that fragile hand
All queenly with its weight of rings,
Good-night to fond up-lifted eyes,
Good-night to chestnut braids of hair,
Good-night unto the perfect mouth
And all the sweetness nestled there!

The snowy hand detains me,-then
I'll have to say Good-night again.

But there will come a time, my Love!
When, if I read our stars aright,

I shall not linger by this porch

With my adieus. Till then, Good-night!
You wish the time were now ? And I.
You do not blush to wish it so ?

You would have blush'd yourself to death
To own so much a year ago.

What! both these snowy hands? ah, then
I'll have to say Good-night again.

TIGER-LILIES.

I like not lady-slippers,

Nor yet the sweet-pea blossoms,
Nor yet the flaky roses,

Red, or white as snow;

I like the chaliced lilies,

The heavy Eastern lilies,

The gorgeous tiger-lilies,

That in our garden grow.

For they are tall and slender;

Their mouths are dash'd with carmine;

And, when the wind sweeps by them,
On their emerald stalks

They bend so proud and graceful:
They are Circassian women,

The favourites of the Sultan,

Adown our garden walks.

And when the rain is falling,
I sit beside the window

And watch them glow and glisten,—
How they burn and glow!

O for the burning lilies,
The tender Eastern lilies,
The gorgeous tiger-lilies

That in our garden grow!

RICHARD GARNETT.

1835

VIOLETS.

Cold blows the wind against the hill,

And cold upon the plain;

I sit me by the bank, until
The violets come again.

Here sat we when the grass was set
With violets shining through,
And leafing branches spread a net
To hold a sky of blue.

The trumpet clamour'd from the plain,
The cannon rent the sky;

I cried-O Love! come back again
Before the violets die!

But they are dead upon the hill,

And he upon the plain ;

I sit me by the bank until

My violets come again.

FADING LEAF AND FALLEN LEAF.

Said Fading-Leaf to Fallen-Leaf

I toss alone on a forsaken tree,

It rocks and cracks with every gust that rocks
Its straining bulk: say! how is it with thee?

Said Fallen-Leaf to Fading-Leaf—

A heavy foot went by, an hour ago :
Crush'd into clay, I stain the way;
The loud Wind calls me, and I can not go.

Said Fading-Leaf to Fallen-Leaf

Death lessons Life, a ghost is ever wise:

Teach me a way to live till May

Laughs fair with fragrant lips and loving eyes!

Said Fallen-Leaf to Fading-Leaf

Hast loved fair eyes and lips of gentle breath?
Fade then, and fall! thou hast had all

That Life can give; ask somewhat now of Death!

THOMAS ASHE.

1836

DALLYING.

Dear Love! I have not ask'd you yet;

Nor heard you, murmuring low

As wood-doves by a rivulet,

Say if it shall be so.

The colour in your cheek, which plays
Like an imprison'd bliss,

In its unworded language says—
"Speak, and I'll answer Yes!"

See! pluck this flower of wood-sorrel,
And twine it in your hair!