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Two lips where grief is mute, Anger at peace;" So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot

God in his kindness answereth not.

"Two hands to work addrest

Aye for His praise;
Two feet that never rest

Walking His ways;
Two eyes that look above

Through all their tears;
Two lips still breathing love,

Not wrath, nor fears;" So pray we afterwards, low on our knees;

Pardon those erring prayers! Father, hear these!


Mine to the core of the heart, my beauty!

Mine, all mine, and for love, not duty:

Love given willingly, full and free, Love for love's sake,— as mine to thee.

Duty's a slave that keeps the keys. But Love, the master, goes in and out of his goodly chambers with song and shout, Just as he please, — just as he please.

Mine, from the dear head's crown, brown-golden,

To the silken foot that's scarce beholden;

Give to a few friends hand or smile. Like a generous lady, now and awhile,

But the sanctuary heart, that none dare win, Keep holiest of holiest evermore; The crowd in the aisles may watch the door, The high-priest only enters in.

Mine, my own, without doubts or terrors,

With all thy goodnesses, all thy errors,

Unto me and to me alone revealed, "A spring shut up, a fountain sealed."

Many may praise thee, — praise mine as thine, Many may love thee,— I'll love them too;

But thy heart of hearts, pure, faithful, and true, Must be mine, mine wholly, and only mine.

Mine!—God, I thank Thee that

Thou hast given Something all mine on this side


Something as much myself to be
As this my soul which I lift to Thee:
Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone;
Life of my life, whom Thou dost

Two to the world for the world's
work's sake,—
But each unto each, as in Thy
sight, one.


Look at me with thy large brown eyes, Philip, my king.

Round whom the enshadowing purple lies

Of babyhood's royal dignities;
Lay on my neck thy tiny hand
With love's invisible sceptre laden
I am thine Esther to command
Till thou shalt find a queen-hand-
Philip, my king.

Oh, the day when thou goest a-wooing,

Philip, my king!
When those beautiful lips are suing,
And some gentle heart's bars undoing
Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and

Sittest love-glorified. Rule kindly,
Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair,
For we that love, ah! we love so
Philip, my king.

Up from thy sweet mouth,— up to

thy brow, Philip, my king! The spirit that there lies sleeping


May rise like a giant and make men bow

As to one heaven-chosen amongst

his peers: My Saul, than thy brethren taller

and fairer Let me behold thee in future years; Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, Philip, my king.

— A wreath not of gold, but palm.

One day, Philip, my king, Thou too must tread, as we trod, a


Thorny and cruel and cold and gray: Rebels within thee and foes without, Will snatch at thy crown. But march

on, glorious, Martyr, yet monarch; till angels

shout [victorious, As thou sit'st at the feet of God "Philip, the king!"


Could you come back to me, Douglas,

Douglas, In the old likeness that I knew, I would be so faithful, so loving,


Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

Never a scornful word should grieve you,

I'd smile on you sweet as the angels do; —

Sweet as your smile on me shone


Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

Oh, to call back the days that are not! My eyes were blinded, your words

were few, Do you know the truth now up in


Douglas, Douglas, tender and true?

I never was worthy of you, Douglas;

Not half worthy the like of you: Now all men beside seem to me like shadows,— I love you, Douglas, tender and true.

Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew;

As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.


Children, that lay their pretty garlands by

So piteously, yet with a humble mind;

Sailors, who, when their ship rocks

in the wind. Cast out her freight with half-averted


Riches for life exchanging solemnly, Lest they should never gain the

wished-for shore; — Thus we, O Father, standing Thee


Do lay down at Thy feet without a sigh

Each after each our precious things and rare,

Our dear heart-jewels and our garlands fair.

Perhaps Thou knewest that the flowers would die,

And the long-voyaged hoards be found but dust:

So took'st them, while unchanged. To Thee we trust

For incorruptible treasure: Thou art just.


Look at his pretty face for just one minute!

His braided frock and dainty buttoned shoes;

His firm-shut hand, the favorite plaything in it,— Then tell me, mothers, was't not hard to lose And miss him from my side,— My little boy that died?

How many another boy, as dear and charming, (delight, His father's hope, his mother's one Slips through strange sicknesses, all fear disarming, And lives a long, long life in parents' sight: Mine was so short a pride! And then,—my poor boy died.

I see him rocking on his wooden charger;

I hear him pattering through the

house all day; I watch his great blue eyes grow

large and larger, [ or gay, Listening to stories, whether grave

Told at the bright fireside,
So dark now, since he died.

But yet I often think my boy is living,

As living as my other children are. When good-night kisses I, all round am giving, I keep one for him, though he is so far. Can a mere grave divide Me from him,— though he died?

So, while I come and plant it o'er

with daisies (Nothing but childish daisies all

year round), Continually God's hand the curtain


And I can hear his merry voice's sound,

And feel him at my side,—
My little boy that died.

Christopher Pearse Cranch.


Was this the singer I had heard so long,

But never till this evening, face to face?

And were they his, those tones so unlike song, Those words conventional and commonplace?

Those echoes of the usual social chat That filled with noise confused the crowded hall; That smiling face, black coat, and white cravat; Those fashionable manners,— was this all?

He glanced at freedmen, operas, politics,

And other common topics of the day;

But not one brilliant image did he mix

With all the prosy things he had to say.

At least I hoped that one I long had known,

In the inspired books that built his fame,

Would breathe some word, some sympathetic tone. Fresh from the ideal region whence he came.

And so I leave the well-dressed, buzzing crowd, And vent my spleen alone here by my fire;

Mourning the fading of my golden cloud.

The disappointment of my life's desire.

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