VIII.

"If you break your plaything yourself, dear,

Don't you cry for it all the same?

I don't think it is such a comfort,

One has only oneself to blame.

IX.

"People say things cannot be helped, dear, But then that is the reason why;

For if things could be helped or altered,
One would never sit down to cry:

X.

"They say, too, that tears are quite useless To undo, amend, or restore,—

When I think how useless, my Effie,

Then my tears only fall the more.

XI.

"All to-day I struggled against it;

But that does not make sorrow cease;

And now,

dear, it is such a comfort

To be able to cry in

peace.

66

XII.

Though wise people would call that folly, And remonstrate with grave surprise;

We won't mind what they say, my Effie ;We never professed to be wise.

XIII.

"But my comforter knows a lesson
Wiser, truer than all the rest :-
That to help and to heal a sorrow,
Love and silence are always best.

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XIV.

Well, who is my comforter-tell me? Effie smiles, but she will not speak; Or look up through the long curled lashes That are shading her rosy cheek.

XV.

"Is she thinking of talking fishes, The blue bird, or magical tree? Perhaps I am thinking, my darling,

Of something that never can be.

XVI.

"You long-don't you, dear?-for the Genii, Who were slaves of lamps and of rings; And I-I am sometimes afraid, dear,

I want as impossible things.

XVII.

"But hark! there is Nurse calling Effie!

It is bedtime, so run away;

And I must go back, or the others
Will be wondering why I stay.

XVIII.

"So good-night to my darling Effie;

Keep happy, sweetheart, and grow wise:— There's one kiss for her golden tresses,

And two for her sleepy eyes."

UNSEEN.

HERE are more things in Heaven and
Earth, than we

Can dream of, or than nature under

stands;

We learn not through our poor philosophy
What hidden chords are touched by unseen hands.

The present hour repeats upon its strings
Echoes of some vague dream we have forgot;
Dim voices whisper half-remembered things,
And when we pause to listen,-answer not.

Forebodings come: we know not how, or whence,
Shadowing a nameless fear upon the soul,
And stir within our hearts a subtler sense,
Than light may read, or wisdom may control.

And who can tell what secret links of thought Bind heart to heart? Unspoken things are heard,

As if within our deepest selves was brought The soul, perhaps, of some unuttered word.

But, though a veil of shadow hangs between
That hidden life, and what we see and hear,
Let us revere the power of the Unseen,
And know a world of mystery is near.