The mourner was nursing They heard not the promise But fiercer the Tempest When the Angel paused And help once more. A weary woman, Pale, worn, and thin, With the brand upon her Of want and sin, Heard the Child Angel And took her in. Took her in gently, And did her best To dry her pinions; And made her rest With tender pity Upon her breast. When the eastern morning Grew bright and red, Up the first sunbeam The Angel fled; Having kissed the woman And left her-dead. RETURNED-" MISSING." (FIVE YEARS AFTER.) ES, I was sad and anxious, To put all hope away:- And can be calm to-day! For hope deferred-you know it, It is but the old trick Of hope, that makes me tremble, All day I sit here calmly; Not as I did before, Watching for one whose footstep Comes never, never more. . . . Hush! was that some one passing, Who paused beside the door? For years I hung on chances, Will never more be stirred. . . . Tell me once more that rumour, You fancied you had heard. Life has more things to dwell on And wait us all : . . . you too, dear, Do you think hope quite vain? All others have forgotten, 'Tis right I should forget, Nor live on a keen longing Which shadows forth regret: ... Are not the letters coming? The sun is almost set. Now that my restless legion Of hopes and fears is fled, Reading is joy and comfort . . . . ... This very day I read, Oh, such a strange returning Of one whom all thought dead! Not that I dream or fancy, You know all that is past; Earth has no hope to give me, Might be brought back at last. |