The day is fair, the hour is noon,
From neighboring thicket thrills the boon
The nuthatch yields in song:

All drench'd with recent rains, the leaves
Are dripping drip the sheltering eaves,
The dropping notes among.

And twinkling diamonds in the grass
Show where the flitting zephyrs pass,
That shake the green blades dry;
And golden radiance fills the air
And gilds the floating gossamer
That glints and trembles by.

Yet, blind to each familiar grace,
Strange anguish on his pallid face,
And eyes of dreamful hue,

That lonely man sits brooding there, Still huddled in his easy-chair,

With memories life will rue.

Where bay might crown that honor'd head,

A homely crumpled nightcap spread
Half veils the careworn brows;
In morning-gown of rare brocade
His puny shrunken shape array'd
His sorrowing soul avows :

Avows in every dropping line
Dejection words not thus define
So eloquent of woe;

Yet never to those mournful eyes,
The heart's full-brimming fountains, rise
Sweet tears to overflow.

No token here of studied grief,
But plainest signs that win belief,
A simple scene and true.
Beside the mourner's chair display'd,
The matin meal's slight comforts laid
Trimly the board bestrew.

'Mid silvery sheen of burnish'd plate, The chill'd and tarnish'd chocolate

On snow-white damask stands ;
Untouch'd the trivial lures remain
In dainty pink-tinged porcelain,
Still ranged by usual hands.

A drowsy bee above the cream
Hums loitering in the sunny gleam
That tips each rim with gold;
A checker'd maze of light and gloom
Floats in the quaintly-litter'd room
With varying charms untold.

Why sits that silent watcher there,
Still brooding with that face of care,
That gaze of tearless pain?
What bonds of woe his spirit bind,
What treasure lost can leave behind
Such stings within his brain?

He dreams of one who lies above,
He never more in life can love-

That mother newly dead;

He waits the artist-friend whose skill
Shall catch the angel-beauty still
Upon her features spread.

A reverent sorrow fills the air,
And makes a throne of grief the chair
Where filial genius mourns:
Death proving still, at direst need,
Life's sceptre-wand- a broken reed,
Love's wreath a crown of thorns.

TO LA SANSCŒUR

I KNOW not how to call you light,
Since I myself was lighter;

Nor can you blame my changing plight
Who were the first inviter.

I know not which began to range
Since we were never constant ;
And each when each began to change
Was found a weak remonstrant.

But this I know, the God of Love
Doth shake his hand against us,
And scorning says we ne'er did prove
True passion
but pretences.

THE MASTER-CHORD

LIKE a musician that with flying finger Startles the voice of some new instrument, And, though he know that in one string are blent

All its extremes of sound, yet still doth linger

Among the lighter threads, fearing to start The deep soul of that one melodious wire, Lest it, unanswering, dash his high desire,

Hoscoe

And spoil the hopes of his expectant heart; Thus, with my mistress oft conversing, I Stir every lighter theme with careless voice, Gathering sweet music and celestial joys From the harmonious soul o'er which I fly; Yet o'er the one deep master-chord I hover, And dare not stoop, fearing to tell — I love her.

EARTH

SAD is my lot; among the shining spheres Wheeling, I weave incessant day and night, And ever, in my never-ending flight,

Add woes to woes, and count up tears on tears.

Young wives' and new-born infants' hapless biers

Lie on my breast, a melancholy sight;
Fresh griefs abhor my fresh returning light;
Pain and remorse and want fill up my years.
My happier children's farther-piercing eyes
Into the blessed solvent future climb,
And knit the threads of joy and hope and
warning;

But I, the ancient mother, am not wise,
And, shut within the blind obscure of time,
Roll on from morn to night, and on from
night to morning.

MIMNERMUS IN CHURCH

You promise heavens free from strife, Pure truth, and perfect change of will; But sweet, sweet is this human life,

So sweet, I fain would breathe it

still;

Your chilly stars I can forego,
This warm kind world is all I know.

You say there is no substance here,
One great reality above:
Back from that void I shrink in fear,
And child-like hide myself in love.

Towards my mark the Dean's talk set:
He praised my "Notes on Abury,"
Read when the Association met

At Sarum; he was pleas'd to see
I had not stopp'd, as some men had,
At Wrangler and Prize Poet; last,
He hop'd the business was not bad
I came about: then the wine pass'd.

A full glass prefaced my reply:

I lov'd his daughter, Honor; I told My estate and prospects; might I try To win her? At my words so bold My sick heart sank. Then he He gave His glad consent, if I could get Her love. A dear, good Girl! she'd have

Only three thousand pounds as yet; More by and by. Yes, his good will

Should go with me ; he would not stir;

He and my father in old time still
Wish'd I should one day marry her;
But God so seldom lets us take

Our chosen pathway, when it lies
In steps that either mar or make
Or alter others' destinies,

That, though his blessing and his pray'r
Had help'd, should help, my suit, yet he
Left all to me, his passive share

Consent and opportunity.

My chance, he hop'd, was good: I'd won
Some name already; friends and place
Appear'd within my reach, but none
Her mind and manners would not grace.
Girls love to see the men in whom

They invest their vanities admir'd ;
Besides, where goodness is, there room
For good to work will be desir'd.
"T was so with one now pass'd away;
And what she was at twenty-two,
Honor was now; and he might say

Mine was a choice I could not rue.

He ceas'd, and gave his hand. He had

won

(And all my heart was in my word) From me the affection of a son,

Whichever fortune Heaven conferr'd! Well, well, would I take more wine? Then

go

To her; she makes tea on the lawn These fine warm afternoons. And so We went whither my soul was drawn ; And her light-hearted ignorance

Of interest in our discourse Fill'd me with love, and seem'd to enhance Her beauty with pathetic force, As, through the flowery mazes sweet,

Fronting the wind that flutter'd blithe, And lov'd her shape, and kiss'd her feet, Shown to their insteps proud and lithe, She approach'd, all mildness and young trust,

And ever her chaste and noble air
Gave to love's feast its choicest gust,
A
vague, faint augury of despair.

HONORIA'S SURRENDER

From little signs, like little stars, Whose faint impression on the sense The very looking straight at mars,

Or only seen by confluence; From instinct of a mutual thought, Whence sanctity of manners flow'd;

From chance unconscious, and from what
Concealment, overconscious, show'd ;
Her hand's less weight upon my arm,
Her lovelier mien; that match'd with
this;

I found, and felt with strange alarm,
I stood committed to my bliss.

I grew assur'd, before I ask'd,

That she'd be mine without reserve,
And in her unclaim'd graces bask'd,
At leisure, till the time should serve,
With just enough of dread to thrill

The hope, and make it trebly dear;
Thus loth to speak the word to kill
Either the hope or happy fear.

Till once, through lanes returning late,
Her laughing sisters lagg'd behind;
And, ere we reach'd her father's gate,

We paus'd with one presentient mind; And, in the dim and perfum'd mist,

Their coming stay'd, who, friends to me, And very women, lov'd to assist

Love's timid opportunity.

Twice rose, twice died my trembling word; The faint and frail Cathedral chimes Spake time in music, and we heard

The chafers rustling in the limes. Her dress, that touch'd me where I stood, The warmth of her confided arm, Her bosom's gentle neighborhood,

Her pleasure in her power to charm ; Her look, her love, her form, her touch, The least seem'd most by blissful turn, Blissful but that it pleas'd too much,

And taught the wayward soul to yearn. It was as if a harp with wires

Was travers'd by the breath I drew ; And, oh, sweet meeting of desires, She, answering, own'd that she lov'd too.

Honoria was to be my bride!

The hopeless heights of hope were scal'd; The summit won, I paus'd and sigh'd, As if success itself had fail'd. It seem'd as if my lips approach'd To touch at Tantalus' reward, And rashly on Eden life encroach'd,

Half-blinded by the flaming sword. The whole world's wealthiest and its best, So fiercely sought, appear'd, when found, Poor in its need to be possess'd,

Poor from its very want of bound.

My queen was crouching at my side,
By love unsceptred and brought low,
Her awful garb of maiden pride

All melted into tears like snow;
The mistress of my reverent thought,
Whose praise was all I ask'd of fame,
In my close-watch'd approval sought

Protection as from danger and blame; Her soul, which late I lov'd to invest With pity for my poor desert, Buried its face within my breast, Like a pet fawn by hunters hurt.

THE MARRIED LOVER

Why, having won her, do I woo?
Because her spirit's vestal grace
Provokes me always to pursue,

But, spirit-like, eludes embrace;
Because her womanhood is such

That, as on court-days subjects kiss The Queen's hand, yet so near a touch Affirms no mean familiarness, Nay, rather marks more fair the height Which can with safety so neglect To dread, as lower ladies might,

That grace could meet with disrespect, Thus she with happy favor feeds

Allegiance from a love so high That thence no false conceit proceeds Of difference bridged, or state put by ; Because, although in act and word

As lowly as a wife can be, Her manners, when they call me lord, Remind me 't is by courtesy ; Not with her least consent of will, Which would my proud affection hurt, But by the noble style that still

Imputes an unattain❜d desert; Because her gay and lofty brows, When all is won which hope can ask, Reflect a light of hopeless snows

That bright in virgin ether bask ; Because, though free of the outer court I am, this Temple keeps its shrine Sacred to Heaven; because, in short,

She's not and never can be mine.

Feasts satiate; stars distress with height; Friendship means well, but misses reach, And wearies in its best delight

Vex'd with the vanities of speech; Too long regarded, roses even

Afflict the mind with fond unrest; And to converse direct with Heaven Is oft a labor in the breast;