VIII.

And each year as it found her
In the dull, feverish town,
Saw self still more forgotten,
And selfish care kept down
By the calm joy of evening.
That brought him to her side,
To warn him with wise counsel,
Or praise with tender pride.

IX.

Her heart, her life, her future,
Her genius, only meant
Another thing to give him,

And be therewith content.

To-day, what words had stirred her, Her soul could not forget?

What dream had filled her spirit

With strange and wild regret?

X.

To leave him for another,

Could it indeed be so?

Could it have cost such anguish

To bid this vision go?

Was this her faith? Was Herbert

The second in her heart?

Did it need all this struggle

To bid a dream depart?

XI.

And yet, within her spirit
A far-off land was seen,

A home, which might have held her,
A love, which might have been,
And Life-not the mere being
Of daily ebb and flow,

But Life itself had claimed her,
And she had let it go!

XII.

Within her heart there echoed

Again the well-known tone

That promised this bright future,
And asked her for her own:
Then words of sorrow, broken
By half-reproachful pain;
And then a farewell, spoken

In words of cold disdain.

M

XIII.

Where now was the stern purpose
That nerved her soul so long?
Whence came the words she uttered,
So hard, so cold, so strong?
What right had she to banish
A hope that God had given?
Why must she choose earth's portion,
And turn aside from Heaven?

XIV.

To-day! Was it this morning?
If this long, fearful strife
Was but the work of hours,

What would be years of life?
Why did a cruel Heaven

For such great suffering call? And why-Oh, still more cruel!-

Must her own words do all?

XV.

Did she repent? Oh Sorrow!
Why do we linger still
To take thy loving message,

And do thy gentle will?

See, her tears fall more slowly,

The passionate murmurs cease, And back upon her spirit

Flow strength, and love, and peace.

XVI.

The fire burns more brightly,
The rain has passed away,
Herbert will see no shadow
Upon his home to-day;
Only that Alice greets him
With doubly tender care,
Kissing a fonder blessing

Down on his golden hair.

II.

I.

HE Studio is deserted,

Palette and brush laid by,

The sketch rests on the easel,

The paint is scarcely dry;

And Silence-who seems always
Within her depths to bear

The next sound that will utter-
Now holds a dumb despair.

II.

So Alice feels it: listening
With breathless, stony fear,
Waiting the dreadful summons

Each minute brings more near: When the young life, now ebbing, Shall fail, and pass away

Into that mighty shadow

Who shrouds the house to-day.

III.

But why-when the sick chamber

Is on the upper floorWhy dares not Alice enter

Within the close-shut door?

If he her all-her Brother,
Lies dying in that gloom,
What strange mysterious power
Has sent her from the room?