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Upon your heart this truth may rise, —

Nothing that altogether dies
suffices man's just destinies:

So should we live, that every hour
May die as dies the natural flower, —
A self-reviving thing of power;

That every thought and every deed
May hold within itself the seed
Of future good and future need:

Esteeming sorrow, whose employ
Is to develop not destroy.
Far better than a barren joy.


They seemed to those who saw them meet

The worldly friends of every day, Her smile was undisturbed and sweet,

His courtesy was free and gay.

But yet if one the other's name
In some unguarded moment heard,
The heart you thought so calm and

Would struggle like a captured bird:

And letters of mere formal phrase
were blistered with repeated tears,—
And this was not the work of days,
But had gone on for years and

Alas, that Love was not too strong
For maiden shame and manly pride!
Alas, that they delayed too long
The goal of mutual bliss beside.

Yet what no chance could then reveal,

And neither would be first to own, Let fate and courage now conceal, When truth could bring remorse alone.


We that were friends, yet are not now,

We that must daily meet With ready words and courteous bow,

Acquaintance of the street;
We must not scorn the holy past,

We must remember still
To honor feelings that outlast

The reason and the will.

I might reprove thy broken faith,

I might recall the time When thou wert chartered mine till death,

Through every fate and clime;
When every letter was a vow,

And fancy was not free
To dream of ended love; and thou

Wouldst say the same of me.

No, no, 'tis not for us to trim

The balance of our wrongs, Enough to leave remorse to him

To whom remorse belongs! Let our dead friendship be to us

A desecrated name, Unutterable, mysterious,

A sorrow and a shame.

A sorrow that two souls which grew

Encased in mutual bliss, Should wander, callous strangers, through So cold a world as this! A shame that we, whose hearts had earned For life an early heaven, Should be like angels self-returned To Death, when once forgiven!

Let us remain as living signs,

Where they that run may read
Pain and disgrace in many lines.

As of a loss indeed;
That of our fellows any who

The prize of love have won
May tremble at the thought to do

The thing that we have done!


ALL things once are things forever;
Soul, once living, lives for ever;
Blame not what is only once,
When that once endures for ever;
Love, once felt, though soon forgot
Moulds the heart to good for ever;

Once betrayed from childly faith,
Man is conscious man for ever; .
Once the void of life revealed,
It must deepen on for ever,
Unless God fill up the heart
With himself for once and ever:
Once made God and man at once,
God and man are one for ever.

Julia Ward Howe.


Mine eyes have seen the glory of the

coming of the Lord; He is trampling out the vintage where

the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning

of his tt terrible swift sword, His truth is marching on.

I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;

They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps;

I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps, His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel:

"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;

Let the hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on!"

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;

He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat;

Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, my feet!

Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,

With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me;

As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,

While God is marching on!

[From Thoughts in Pire la Chaise.]


"What was I cannot tell — thou know'st our story,

Know'st how we stole God's treasure from on high;

Without heaven's virtue we had heaven's glory,

Too justly our delights were doomed to die.

"Intense as were our blisses, e'en so painful

The keen privation it was ours to share;

All states, all places barren proved and baneful,

Dead stones grew pitiful at our despair;

"Till, to the cloister's solitude repairing,

Our feet the way of holier sorrows trod,

Hid from each other, yet together sharing

The labor of the Providence of God.

"Often at midnight, on the cold stone lying,

My passionate sobs have rent the passive air,

While my crisped fingers clutched the

pavement, trying To hold him fast, as he had still been


"I called, I shrieked, till my spent

breath came faintly, I sank, in pain Christ's martyrs could

not bear;

Then dreamed I saw him, beautiful

and saintly, As his far convent tolled the hour of


"Solemn and deep that vision of reunion —

He passed in robe, and cowl, and sandall'd feet,

But our dissever'd lips held no communion,

Our long divorced glances could not meet .

"Then slowly, from that hunger of

sensation, That rage for happiness, which makes

it sin,

I rose to calmer, wider contemplation, And knew the Holiest, and his discipline.

"O thou who call'st on me! if that thou bearest

A wounded heart beneath thy woman's vest,

If thou my mournful earthly fortune sharest,

Share the high hopes that calmed my fever' d breast.

"Not vainly do I boast religion's power,

Faith dawned upon the eyes with Sorrow dim;

I toiled and trusted, till there came an hour

That saw me sleep in God, and wake with him.

"Seek comfort thus, for all life's painful losing,

Compel from Sorrow merit and reward,

And sometimes wile a mournful hour

in musing How Elolsa loved her Abelard."

The voice fled heav'nward ere its

spell was broken, — I stretched a tremulous hand within

the grate, And bore away a ravished rose, in


Of woman's highest love and hardest fate.


Oh! grief that wring'st mine eyes

with tears, Demand not from my lips a song; That fated gift of early years I've loved too well, I've nursed too


What boot my verses to the heart That breath of mine no more shall stir?

Where were the piety of Art,
If thou wert silent over her?

This was a maiden, light of foot, Whose bloom and laughter, fresh and free,

Flitted like sunshine, in and out
Among my little ones and me.

Hers was the power to quell and charm:

The ready wit that children love: The faithful breast, the shielding arm

Pillowed in sleep my tenderest dove.

She played in all the nursery plays,
She ruled in all its little strife;
A thousand genial ways endeared
Her presence to my daily life.

She ranged my hair with gem or flower,

Careful, the festal draperies hung,
Or plied her needle, hour by hour
In cadence with the song I sung.

My highest joy she could not share,
Nor fathom sorrow's deep abyss;
For that, she wore a smiling air,
She hung her head and pined for this.

"And she shall live with me," I said,
"Till all my pretty ones be grown;
I'll give my girls my little maid,
The gayest thing I call my own."

Or else, methought, some farmer bold Should woo and win my gentle Lizzie,

And I should stock her house fourfold,

Be with her wedding blithely busy.

But lo! Consumption's spectral form Sucks from her lips the flickering breath;

In these pale flowers, these tear-drops warm,

I bring the mournful dower of Death.

I could but say, with faltering voice And eyes that glanced aside to weep, "Be strong in faith and hope, my child;

He giveth his beloved sleep.

"And though thou walk the shadowy vale,

Whose end we know not, He will aid; His rod and staff shall stay thy steps;" "I know it well," she smiled and said.

She knew it well, and knew yet more My deepest hope, though unexprest, The hope that God's appointed sleep But heightens ravishment with rest.

My children, living flowers, shall come And strew with seed this grave of thine,

And bid the blushing growths of spring

Thy dreary painted cross entwine.

Thus Faith, cast out of barren creeds, Shall rest in emblems of her own; Beauty, still springing from Decay, The cross-wood budding to the crown.


Take the dead Christ to my chamber,

The Christ I brought from Rome; Over all the tossing ocean,

He has reached his western home; Bear him as in procession,

And lay him solemnly Where, through weary night and morning,

He shall bear me company.

The name I bear is other
Than than that I bore by birth,

And I've given life to children
Who'll grow and dwell on earth;

But the time comes swiftly towards me

(Nor do I bid it stay),
When the dead Christ will be more
to me
Than all I hold to-day.

Lay the dead Christ beside me,
Oh, press him on my heart,

I would hold him long and painfully
Till the weary tears should start;

Till the divine contagion
Heal me of self and sin,

And the cold weight press wholly down

The pulse that chokes within.

Reproof and frost, they fret me,

Towards the free, the sunny lands, From the chaos of existence

I stretch these feeble hands; And, penitential, kneeling,

Pray God would not be wroth, Who gave not the strength of feeling,

And strength of labor both.

Thou'rt but a wooden carving,
Defaced of worms, and old;

Yet more to me thou couldst not be
Wert thou all wrapt in gold •

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