TOO LATE. USH! speak low; tread softly; Yes, she does look peaceful; With that smile she died. Yet stern want and sorrow Even now you trace On the wan, worn features, Restless, helpless, hopeless, Now-how still the Violets She who toiled and laboured For her daily bread; See the velvet hangings Of this stately bed. Yes, they did forgive her; Brought her home at last; Strove to cover over Their relentless past. Ah, they would have given To see her just look happy They strove hard to please her, And besides, one sorrow If she had but lingered Just a few hours more; Or had this letter reached her Just one day before! I can almost pity Even him to-day; Though he let this anguish Yet she never blamed him : One day you shall know How this sorrow happened; It was long ago. I have read the letter; Many a weary year, For one word she hungered- If she could but hear it, Could but understand; See I put the letter In her cold white hand. Even these words, so longed for, Do not stir her rest; Well-I should not murmur, For God judges best, She needs no more pity,— But I mourn his fate, When he hears his letter Came a day too late. THE REQUITAL. OUD roared the Tempest, A little Child Angel Passed down the street, With trailing pinions, And weary feet. The moon was hidden; So she could not shelter In heaven that night, For the Angels' ladders Are rays of light. |