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The mourner was nursing
Her own pale grief:

They heard not the promise
That brought relief.

But fiercer the Tempest
Rose than before,

When the Angel paused
At a humble door,
And asked for shelter

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,
But now, dear, I am gay;

I know that it is wisest

To put all hope away:

Thank God that I have done so

And can be calm to-day!

For hope deferred—you know it,
Once made my heart so sick:
Now, I expect no longer;

It is but the old trick

Of hope, that makes me tremble,
And makes my heart beat quick.

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,
Longing for just one word;
At last I feel it :-silence

Will never more be stirred. . . . Tell me once more that rumour, You fancied you had heard.

Life has more things to dwell on
Than just one useless pain,
Useless and past for ever;
But noble things remain,

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,

And yet:-Time flies so fast. That all but the impossible

Might be brought back at last.

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