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I have my dear share of honor, Gained by that beloved one.

One day shall my darling read it;

Now she cannot understand All the noble thoughts that lighten

Through the genius of the

land.

I am proud to be his brother, Proud to think that hope was true;

Though I longed and strove so vainly,

What I failed in, he could do.

I was long before I knew it,

Longer ere I felt it so; Then I strung my rhymes together

Only for the poor and low. And, it pleases me to know it,

(For I love them well indeed,) They care for my humble verses, Fitted for their humble need.

And, it cheers my heart to hear it,

Where the far-off settlers roam, My poor words are sung and cherished,

Just because they speak of
Home.

And the little children sing them, (That, I think, has pleased me best,)

Often, too, the dying love them, For they tell of Heaven and

rest.

So my last vain dream has faded; (Such as I to think of fame!) Yet I will not say it failed me,

For it crowned my Godfrey's

name.

No; my Angel did not cheat me, For my long life has been

blest;

He did give me Love and Sor

row,

He will bring me Light and Rest.

A WOMAN'S QUESTION. BEFORE I trust my Fate to thee,

Or place my hand in thine, Before I let thy Future give

Color and form to mine, Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul to-night for me.

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel

A shadow of regret : Is there one link within the Past

That holds thy spirit yet? Or is thy Faith as clear and free as that which I can pledge to thee?

Does there within thy dimmest dreams

A possible future shine, Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe,

Untouched, unshared by mine? If so, at any pain or cost, O, tell me before all is lost.

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feel

Within my inmost soul,

That thou hast kept a portion

back,

While I have staked the

whole;

Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy tell me so.

Is there within thy heart a need
That mine cannot fulfil ?
One chord that any other hand
Could better wake or still?
Speak now-lest at some fu-

ture day my whole life
wither and decay.

Lives there within thy nature hid

The demon-spirit Change, Shedding a passing glory still On all things new and strange?

It may not be thy fault alone but shield my heart against thy own.

Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day

And answer to my claim, That Fate, and that to-day's mistake

Not thou had been to blame?

Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou wilt surely warn and save me now.

hear,

The words would come too

late;

Yet I would spare thee all re

morse,

So, comfort thee, my FateWhatever on my heart may fall -remember, I would risk it all!

THE THREE RULERS.

I SAW a Ruler take his stand, And trample on a mighty land; The People crouched before his beck,

His iron heel was on their neck, His name shone bright through blood and pain,

His sword flashed back their praise again.

I saw another Ruler rise:

His words were noble, good, and wise;

With the calm sceptre of his pen He ruled the minds and thoughts of men : Some scoffed, some praised, while many heard, Only a few obeyed his word.

Another Ruler then I saw : Love and sweet Pity were his

law;

The greatest and the least had

part

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(Yet most the unhappy) in his heart:

The People, in a mighty band, Rose up, and drove him from the land!

A DEAD PAST.

SPARE her at least: look, you

have taken from me

The Present, and I murmur not, nor moan;

The Future too, with all her

glorious promise;

And so I laid her, such a gentle burden,

Quietly on my heart to still its pain.

I do not think that any smiling Present,

Any vague Future, spite of all her charms,

Could ever rival her. You know you laid her,

Long years ago, then living, in

my arms.

Leave her at least: while my tears fall upon her,

alone.

did of yore;

As dear as ever to me,

may be, Even dearer still, since I have nothing more.

A DOUBTING HEART.

WHERE are the swallows fled? Frozen and dead, Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore.

O doubting heart! Far over purple seas, They wait, in sunny ease, The balmy southern breeze, To bring them to their northern homes once more.

Why must the flowers die? Prisoned they lie