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Sighed Princess Alice as night grew nearer:
"So soon, so soon, is the daylight fled!
And oh, how fast comes the dark to-morrow,
Who hides, perhaps in her veil of sorrow,

The terrible hour I wait and dread!"

But Princess Gwendoline kissed her, sighing,— "It is only Life that can fear dying; Possible loss means possible gain.

Those who still dread, are not quite forsaken; But not to fear, because all is taken,

Is the loneliest depth of human pain."

HILE

AN IDEAL.

LE the grey mists of early dawn

Were lingering round the hill,

And the dew was still upon the flowers,

And the earth lay calm and still,

A winged Spirit came to me,

Noble, and radiant, and free.

Folding his blue and shining wings,

He laid his hand on mine.

I know not if I felt, or heard

The mystic word divine,

Which woke the trembling air to sighs,
And shone from out his starry eyes.

The word he spoke, within my heart
Stirred life unknown before,

And cast a spell upon my soul

To chain it evermore;

Making the cold dull earth look bright,
And skies flame out in sapphire light.

When noon ruled from the heavens, and man
Through busy day toiled on,

My Spirit drooped his shining wings;
His radiant smile was gone;

His voice had ceased, his grace had flown,

His hand

grew

cold within my own.

Bitter, oh bitter tears, I wept,

Yet still I held his hand,

Hoping with vague unreasoning hope:
I would not understand

That this pale Spirit never more

Could be what he had been before.

Could it be so? My heart stood still.

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I strove; but my despair was vain;

Vain, too, was love and pride.

Could he have changed to me so soon?
My day was only at its noon.

Now stars are rising one by one,
Through the dim evening air;
Near me a household Spirit waits,

With tender loving care;

He speaks and smiles, but never sings, Long since he lost his shining wings.

With thankful, true content, I know
This is the better way;

Is not a faithful spirit mine

Mine still-at close of day? . . . . Yet will my foolish heart repine

For that bright morning dream of mine.

OUR DEAD.

OTHING is our own: we hold our

pleasures

Just a little while, ere they are fled :

One by one life robs us of our treasures ;
Nothing is our own except our Dead.

They are ours, and hold in faithful keeping
Safe for ever, all they took away.

Cruel life can never stir that sleeping,

Cruel time can never seize that prey.

Justice pales; truth fades; stars fall from Heaven;
Human are the great whom we revere :

No true crown of honour can be given,
Till we place it on a funeral bier.

How the Children leave us: and no traces

Linger of that smiling angel band;
Gone, for ever gone; and in their places,

Weary men and anxious women stand.

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