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EDWIN ARNOLD.

SHE AND HE.

But he who loved her too well to dread

"SHE is dead!" they said to him. The sweet, the stately, the beautiful

"Come away;

Kiss her! and leave her!-thy love is clay!"

They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair;

On her forehead of marble they laid it fair:

Over her eyes, which gazed too much,

They drew the lids with a gentle touch;

With a tender touch they closed up well

The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell;

About her brows, and her dear, pale face

They tied her veil and her marriagelace;

dead,

He lit his lamp, and took the key, And turn'd it! Alone again - he and she!

He and she; but she would not speak, Though he kiss'd, in the old place, the quiet cheek;

He and she; yet she would not smile, Though he call'd her the name that was fondest erewhile.

He and she; and she did not move To any one passionate whisper of love!

Then he said, "Cold lips! and breast without breath!

Is there no voice?-no language of death

"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense,

And drew on her white feet her But to heart and to soul distinct,

white silk shoes;Which were the whiter no eye could choose!

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Who will believe that he heard her say,

"I

be without body and breathe without breath.

should laugh for joy if you did not cry;

Oh, listen! Love lasts!- Love never will die.

"I am only your Angel who was your Bride;

And I know, that though dead, I have never died."

AFTER DEATH IN ARABIA.
HE who died at Azan sends
This to comfort all his friends:

Faithful friends! It lies, I know,
Pale and white and cold as snow;
Weeping at the feet and head,
And ye say, "Abdallah's dead!"
1 can hear your sighs and prayers;
I can see your falling tears,
Yet I smile and whisper this,-
"I am not the thing you kiss;
Cease your tears, and let it lie;
It was mine, it is not I."

Sweet friends! What the women lave
For its last bed of the grave,
Is a tent which I am quitting,
Is a garment no more fitting,
Is a cage from which, at last,
Like a hawk my soul hath passed.
Love the inmate, not the room,-
The wearer, not the garb, — the
plume

Of the falcon, not the bars

With the soft rich voice, in the dear Which kept him from these splendid

old way:

"The utmost wonder is this, I hear, And see you, and love you, and kiss you, Dear;

"I can speak, now you listen with soul alone;

If your soul could see, it would all be shown.

stars.

Loving friends! Be wise and dry
Straightway every weeping eye,—
What ye lift upon the bier
Is not worth a wistful tear.
'Tis an empty sea-shell,- -one
Out of which the pearl is gone;
The shell is broken, it lies there;
The pearl, the all, the soul, is here.

'Tis an earthen jar, whose lid
Allah sealed, the while it hid
That treasure of his treasury,
A mind that loved him; let it lie!
Let the shard be earth's once more,
Since the gold shines in his store!

Allah glorious! Allah good!
Now thy world is understood;
Now the long, long wonder ends;
Yet ye weep, my erring friends,
While the man whom ye call dead,
In unspoken bliss, instead,

Lives and loves you; lost, 'tis true,
By such light as shines for you;
But in light ye cannot see
Of unfulfilled felicity,-

In enlarging paradise,

Lives a life that never dies.

Farewell, friends! Yet not farewell;
Where I am, ye, too, shall dwell.
I am gone before your face,
A moment's time, a little space.
When ye come where I have stepped
Ye will wonder why ye wept;
Ye will know, by wise love taught,
That here is all, and there is naught.
Weep awhile, if ye are fain,—
Sunshine still must follow rain;
Only not at death,- for death,
Now I know, is that first breath
Which our souls draw when we enter
Life, which is of all life centre.

Be ye certain all seems love,
Viewed from Allah's throne above;
Be ye stout of heart, and come
Bravely onward to your home!
La Allah illa Allah! yea!

Thou love divine! Thou love alway!

He that died at Azan gave
This to those who made his grave.

FLORENCE Nightingale.

IF on this verse of mine
Those eyes shall ever shine,
Whereto sore-wounded men have
looked for life,

Think not that for a rhyme,
Nor yet to fit the time,

I name thy name,-true victor in this strife!

But let it serve to say

That, when we kneel to pray,

Prayers rise for thee thine ear shall never know;

And that thy gallant deed,

For God, and for our need,

Is in all hearts, as deep as love can go.

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GEORGE ARNOLD.

IN THE DARK.

[The author's last poem, written a few days before his death.]

ALL moveless stand the ancient

cedar-trees

Let those who wish them toil for gold and praise;

To me the summer-day brings more of pleasure.

Along the drifted sand-hills where So, here upon the grass, I lie at ease,

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While solemn voices from the Past are calling,

Mingled with rustling whispers in the trees,

And pleasant sounds of water idly falling.

There was a time when I had higher aims

Than thus to lie among the flowers and listen

To listening birds, or watch the sunset's flames

On the broad river's surface glow and glisten.

There was a time, perhaps, when I had thought

To make a name, a home, a bright

existence:

But time has shown me that my dreams are naught

Save a mirage that vanished with the distance.

Well, it is gone: I care no longer

now

For fame, for fortune, or for empty praises; Rather than wear a crown upon my brow,

I'd lie forever here among the daisies.

So you, who wish for fame, good friend, pass by;

With you I surely cannot think to quarrel:

Give me peace, rest, this bank whereon I lie,

And spare me both the labor and

the laurel!

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And, Patience! in another life, we say. The world shall be thrust down, and we up-borne.

And will not, then, the immortal armies scorn

No, no! the energy of life may be Kept on after the grave, but not begun;

And he who flagg'd not in the earthly strife,

From strength to strength advancing His soul well-knit, and all his battles only he,

won,

Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life.

EAST LONDON.

'Twas August, and the fierce sun
overhead

Smote on the squalid streets of Beth-
And the pale weaver, through his
nal Green,
windows seen

In

Spitalfields, look'd thrice dispirited.

I met a preacher there I knew, and said:

"Ill and o'erwork'd, how fare you in this scene?”.

"Bravely!" said he; "for I of late
have been

Much cheer'd with thoughts of
Christ, the living bread."

O human soul! as long as thou canst

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The world's poor, routed leavings? To cheer thee, and to right thee if or will they, thou roam

Who fail'd under the heat of this Not with lost toil thou laborest through the night!

life's day,

Support the fervors of the heavenly Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed thy home.

morn?

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