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WHERE THE liOSES GREW.

This is where the roses grew,
In the summer that is gone;

Fairer bloom or richer hue
Never summer shone upon:

O, the glories vanished hence!

O, the sad imperfect tense!

This is where the roses grew
When the July days were long, —

When the garden all day through
Echoed with delight and song; —

Hark! the dead and broken stalks

Eddying down the windy walks!

Never was a desert waste,
Where no blossom-life is born,

Half so dreary and unblest,
Half so lonesome and forlorn,

Since in this we dimly see

All the bliss that used to be.

Where the roses used to grow!

And the west-wind's wailing words Tell in whispers faint and low

Of the famished humming-birds, —
Of the bees which search in vain
For the honey-cells again!

This is where the roses grew,
Till the ground was all perfume,

And, whenever zephyrs blew,
Carpeted with crimson bloom!

Now the chill and scentless air,

Sweeps the flower-plats brown and bare.

Hearts have gardens sad as this,
Where the roses bloom no more, —

Gardens where no summer bliss
Can the summer bloom restore,—

Where the snow melts not away

At the warming kiss of May; —

Gardens where the vernal morns Never shed their sunshine down, —

Where are only stems and thorns, Veiled in dead leaves, curled and brown, —

Gardens where we only see

Where the roses used to be!

LAST.

Friend, whose smile has come to be

Very precious unto me,

Though I know I drank not first,
Of your love's bright fountain-
burst,

Yet I grieve not for the past,
So you only love me last!

Other souls may find their joy
In the blind love of a boy:

Give me that which years have
tried,

Disciplined and purified, —
Such as, braving sun and blast
You will bring to me at last!

There are brows more fair than mine,
Eyes of more bewitching shine,
Other hearts more fit, in truth,
For the passion of your youth;
But, their transient empire past,
You will surely love me last!

Wing away your summer time,

Find a love in every clime,

Roam in liberty and light, —
I shall never stay your flight;

For I know, when all is past,

You will come to me at last!

Change and flutter as you will,

I shall smile securely still;
Patiently I trust and wait
Though you tarry long and late;

Prize your spring till it be past,

Only, only love me last!

ROCK ME TO SLEEP.

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,

Make me a child again just for tonight!

Mother, come back from the echolcss shore,

Take me again to your heart as ot yore;

Kiss from my forehead the furrows

of care,

Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;

Over my slumbers your loving watch

keep;

Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep!

Backward, flow backward, O tide of

the years! I am so weary of toil and of tears, — Toil without recompense, tears all in

vain, —

Take them, and give me my childhood again!

I have grown weary of dust and decay, —

Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;

Weary of sowing for others to reap; — Rock me to sleep, mother,— rock me to sleep!

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,

Mother, O mother, my heart calls for

you!

Many a summer the grass has grown green,

Blossomed and faded, our faces between:

Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,

Long I to-night for your presence again.

Come from the silence so long and so deep;—

Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep!

Over my heart in the days that are flown,

No love like mother-love ever has shone;

No other worship abides and endures, —

Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours:

None like a mother can charm away pain

From the sick soul and the worldweary brain.

Slumber's soft calm o'er my heavy

lids creep; — Rock me to sleep, mother, —rock me

to sleep!

Come, let your brown hair, just

lighted with gold. Fall on your shoulders again as of

old;

Let it drop over my forehead tonight,

Shading my faint eyes away from the light;

For with its sunny-edged shadows

once more Haply will throng the sweet visions

of yore;

Lovingly, softly, its bright billows

sweep; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me

to sleep!

Mother, dear mother, the years have

been long since I last listened your lullaby song: Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall

seem

Womanhood's years have been only a dream.

Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,

With your light lashes just sweeping my face,

Never hereafter to wake or to weep; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep!

UNTIL DEATH.

Make me no vows of constancy, dear friend,

To love me, though I die, thy whole life long.

And love no other till thy days shall end;

Nay, it were rash and wrong.

If thou canst love another, be it so; I would not reach out of my quiet grave

To bind thy heart, if it should choose to go: — Love should not be a slave.

My placid ghost, I trust, will walk serene

In clearer light than gilds those earthly morns, Above the jealousies and envies keen

Which sow this life with thorns.

Thou wouldst not feel my shadowy caress.

If, after death, my soul should linger here;

Men's hearts crave tangible, close tenderness, Love's presence, warm and near.

It would not make me sleep more peacefully That thou wert wasting all thy life in woe

For my poor sake; what love thou hast for me, Bestow it ere I go!

Can e not upon a stone when I am dead

The praises which remorseful mourners give To women's graves, — a tardy recompense,— But speak them while I live.

Heap not the heavy marble on my head

To shut away the sunshine and the dew;

Let small blooms grow there, and let grasses wave, And raindrops filter through.

Thou wilt meet many fairer and more gay

Than I; but, trust me, thou canst never find One who will love and serve thee night and day With a more single mind.

Forget me when I die! The violets Above my breast will blossom just as blue,

Nor miss thy tears; e'en Nature's self forgets; — But while I live, be true!

EVERY DAY.

O, Trifi.ing tasks so often done.
Yet ever to be done anew!

O, cares which come with every sun, Morn after morn, the long years through!

We shrink beneath their paltry

sway, — The irksome calls of every day.

The restless sense of wasted power,
The tiresome round of little things,

Are hard to bear, as hour by hour
Its tedious iteration brings;

Who shall evade or who delay

The small demands of every day?

The boulder in the torrent's course

By tide and tempest lashed in vain, Obeys the wave-whirled pebble's force,

And yields its substance grain by
grain;

So crumble strongest lives away
Beneath the wear of every day.

Who finds the lion in his lair,
Who tracks the tiger for his life,

May wound them ere they are aware, Or conquer them in desperate strife;

Yet powerless he to scathe or slay
The vexing gnats of every day.

The steady strain that never stops
Is mightier than the fiercest shock;

The constant fall of water-drops
Will groove the adamantine rock;

We feel our noblest powers decay,

In feeble wars with every day.

We rise to meet a heavy blow —
Our souls a sudden bravery fills —

But we endure not always so
The drop-by-drop of little ills!

We still deplore and still obey

The hard behests of every day.

The heart which boldly faces death Upon the battle-field, and dares

Cannon and bayonet, faints beneath The needle-points of frets and cares;

The stoutest spirits they dismay —

The tiny stings of every day.

And even saints of holy fame,
Whose souls by faith have over-
come,

Who wore amid the cruel flame

The molten crown of martyrdom, Bore not without complaint alway The petty pains of every day.

Ah! more than martyr's aureole,
And more than hero's heart of
fire.

We need the humble strength of soul,
Which daily toils and ills require; —
Sweet Patience! grant us, if you may,
An added grace for every day.

William Allingham.

THE TOUCHSTONE.

A Man there came, whence none could tell,

Bearing a touchstone in his hand;

And tested all things in the land
By its unerring spell.

Quick birth of transmutation smote
The fair to foul, the foul to fair;
Purple nor ermine did he spare,

Nor scorn the dusty coat.

Of heirloom jewels, prized so much, Were many changed to chips and clods,

And even statues of the gods
Crumbled beneath its touch.

Then angrily the people cried,
"The loss outweighs the profit far;

Our goods suffice us as they are;
We will not have them tried."

And since they could not so avail
To check this unrelenting guest,
They seized him, saying, " Let him
test

How real is our jail!"

But, though they slew him with the sword.

And in a fire his touchstone burned, Its doings could not be o'erturned, Its undoings restored.

And when, to stop all future harm, They strewed its ashes on the breeze;

They little guessed each grain of these

Conveyed the perfect charm.

AUTUMNAL SONNET.

Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods,

And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt,

And night by night the monitory blast

Wails in the keyhole, telling how it passed

O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes,

Or grim, wide wave; and now the power is felt

Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods

Than any joy indulgent Summer dealt.

Dear friends, together in the glimmering eve,

Pensive and glad, with tones that recognize

The soft invisible dew in each one's eyes.

It may be, somewhat thus we shall have leave

To walk with Memory, when distant lies

Poor Earth, where we were wont to live and grieve.

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TO ROUSE, THE ARTIST.

As when in watches of the night we see,

Hanging in tremulous beauty o'er the bed,

The face we loved on Earth, now

from us fled; So wan, so sweet, so spiritually

free

From taint of Earth, thy tender drawings be.

There we may find a friend remembered;

With a new aureole hovering round the head,

Given by Art's peaceful immortality.

How many homes half empty fill the place

Death vacates, with thy gracious substitutes!

Not sensuous with color, which may disgrace

The memory of the body shared with brutes;

But the essential spirit in the face;

As angels see us, best, Affection suits.

TO WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON, AFTER THE WAR.

Oh! happiest thou, who from the

shining height, Of tablelands serene can look below Where glared the tempest, and the

lightning's glow, And see thy seed made harvest wave

in light,

And all the darkened land with

God's smile bright! Leaving with him the issue. Enough

to know

Albeit the sword hath sundered brothers so,

Yet God's vicegerent ever is the Right.

Nor will he leave us bleeding, but

his Time Which healeth all things will our

wounds make whole. While washed and cleansed of our

fraternal crime, Freedom shall count again her starry

roll;

All there, and moving with a step sublime

To music God sounds in the human soul.

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