All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given, thee All my life's bliss is in the grave with But, when the days of golden dreams had perished, And even Despair was powerless to destroy; Then did I learn how existence could be cherished, Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy. Then did I check the tears of useless passion Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine; Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten mine. Down to that tomb already more than And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again? MARIA GOWEN BROOKS. [From Zophiel.] SONG OF EGLA. DAY, in melting purple dying; Thou, to whom I love to hearken, Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent, Let me think it innocent! Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure; All I ask is friendship's pleasure; UPON the white sea sand There sat a pilgrim band, Telling the losses that their lives had known; While evening waned away From breezy cliff and bay, And the strong tide went out with weary moan. One spake, with quivering lip, Of a fair freighted ship, With all his household to the deep gone down; But one had wilder woe For a fair face, long ago [town. Lost in the darker depths of a great There were who mourned their youth With a most loving ruth, For its brave hopes and memories ever green; And one upon the west For far-off hills whereon its joy had been. Some talked of vanished gold, Some spake of friends that were their trust no more; And one of a green grave That made him sit so lonely on the shore. Long since, we parted in our careless prime, Like summer birds no June shall hasten hither; No more to meet as in that merry time, The sweet spring-time that shone on all together. Some, to the fevered city's toil and grime, And some o'er distant seas, and some- - ah! whither ? Nay, we shall never meet as in the time, The dear old time when we were all together. And some Heads that I helped to lay On the pillow that lasts for aye. To the dreary hill where they lie- Cruel the thought and vain! Done with trouble and care — And still I think of them there. Ah, couldst thou come to me, Bird that I loved the best! - above their heads, in Wail in chimney and tree — Year after year, the grasses wave Leave the dead to their rest. THE ADIEU. SWEET Falsehoods, fare ye well! this fond heart, dear paramours of A cold, unloving bride Is ever at my side Yet who so pure, so beautiful as Long hath she sought my side, Till, all perforce, she won my spirit And though her glances be But hard and stern to me, At every step I love her more and more. ALONE. A SAD old house by the sea. But to lie, and think of thee |