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Once I staked all my heart's treasure, We played—and he won.

Yes; and just now I have seen him, Cold, smiling, and blest, Laid in his coffin. God help me! While he is at rest, I am cursed still to live:—even Death loved him the best.



IKE dreary prison walls

The stern grey mountains rise,
Until their topmost crags
Touch the far gloomy skies:
One steep and narrow path

Winds up the mountain's crest,
And from our valley leads
Out to the golden West.

I dwell here in content,

Thankful for tranquil days; And yet, my eyes grow dim,

As still I gaze and gaze Upon that mountain pass,

That leads—or so it seems— To some far happy land,

Known in a world of dreams.

And as I watch that path

Over the distant hill, A foolish longing comes

My heart and soul to fill, A painful, strange desire

To break some weary bond, A vague unuttered wish

For what might lie beyond!

In that far world unknown,

Over that distant hill, May dwell the loved and lost,

Lost—yet beloved still; I have a yearning hope,

Half longing, and half pain, That by that mountain pass

They may return again.

Space may keep friends apart, Death has a mighty thrall;

There is another gulf Harder to cross than all;

Yet watching that far road,
My heart beats full and fast-

If they should come once more, If they should come at last!

See, down the mountain side

The silver vapours creep; They hide the rocky cliffs,

They hide the craggy steep, They hide the narrow path

That comes across the hill— Oh, foolish longing, cease,

Oh, beating Heart, be still!



E must not doubt, or fear, or dread, that love for life is only given, And that the calm and sainted dead will meet estranged and cold in heaven:— Oh, Love were poor and vain indeed, based on so harsh and stern a creed.

True that this earth must pass away, with all the starry worlds of light,

With all the glory of the day, and calmer tenderness of night;

For, in that radiant home can shine alone the immortal and divine.

Earth's lower things—her pride, her fame, her science, learning, wealth and power—

Slow growths that through long ages came, or fruits of some convulsive hour,

Whose very memory must decay—Heaven is too pure for such as they.

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