Her widowhood, and sorrows, follow'd her
Far off, when she went forth, to be alone
In lonely places; and at set of sun
They won her back by some fond phantasy,
By telling her some tale of the gone days
Of her dear lost ones, promising to show her
Some faded garland, or some broken toy,
Dusty and dim, which they had found, or
feign'd

To have found, some plaything of their infant hours.

Within the echoes of a ruin'd court

She sat and mourn'd, with her lamenting voice,

Melodious in sorrow, like the sound

Of funeral hymns; for in her youth she sang
Along the myrtle valleys in the spring,
Plucking the fresh pinks and the hyacinths,
With her fair troop of girls, who answer'd
her

Silverly sweet, so that the lovely tribe
Were Nature's matchless treble to the last
Delicious pipe, pure, warbling, dewy clear.
In summer and in winter, that lorn voice
Went up, like the struck spirit of this world,
Making the starry roof of heaven tremble
With her lament, and agony, and all
The crowned Gods in their high tabernacles
Sigh unawares, and think upon their deeds.
Her guardians let her wander at her will,
For all could weep for her; had she not
been

The first and fairest of that sunny land, And bless'd with all things; doubly crown'd with power

And beauty, doubly now discrown'd and

fallen ?

Oh! none would harm her, only she herself; And chiefly then when they would hold her back,

And sue her to take comfort in her home,
Or in the bridal chambers of her youth,
Or in the old gardens, once her joy and
pride,

Or the rose-bowers along the river-shore
She lov'd of old, now silent and forsaken.
For then she fled away, as though in fear,
As if she saw the spectres of her hours
Of joyaunce pass before her in the shapes,
Of her belov'd ones. But most she chose
Waste places, where the moss and lichen
crawl'd,

And the wild ivy flutter'd, and the rains Wept thro' the roofless ruins, and all seem'd

To mourn in symbols, and to answer to her,
Showing her outward that she was within.
The unregarding multitude pass'd on,
Because her woe was a familiar sight.
But some there were that shut their ears
and fled,

And they were childless ; the rose-lipp'd and young

Felt that imperial voice and desolate Strike cold into their hearts; children at play

Were smit with sudden silence, with their toys

Clutch'd in their hands, forgetful of the

game.

Aged she was, yet beautiful in age.
Her beauty, thro' the cloud of years and
grief,

Shone as a wintry sun; she never smil❜d,
Save when a darkness pass'd across the sun,
And blotted out from her entranced eyes
Disastrous shapes that rode upon his disk,
Tyrannous visions, armed presences;
And then she sigh'd and lifted up her head,
And shed a few warm tears. But when he
rose,

And her sad eyes unclos'd before his beams,
She started up with terrors in her look,
That wither'd up all pity in affright,
And ran about, like one with Furies torn,
And rent her hair, and madly threaten'd
Heaven,

And call'd for retribution on the Gods, Crying, "O save me from Him, He is there;

Oh, let me wear my little span of life.

I see Him in the centre of the sun;
His face is black with wrath! thou angry
God,

I am a worthless thing, a childless mother
Widow'd and wasted, old and comfortless,
But still I am alive; wouldst thou take
all?

Thou who hast snatch'd my hopes and my delights,

Thou who hast kill'd my children, wouldst

Where they were gather'd, cold as is my heart!

Oh! if my living lot be bitterness, "T is sweeter than to think, that, if I go Down to the dust, then I shall think no more Of them I lov'd and lost, the thoughts of whom

Are all my being, and shall speak no more, In answer to their voices in my heart,

As though it were mine ear, rewording all Their innocent delights, and fleeting pains, Their infant fondnesses, their little wants, And simple words. Oh! while I am, I dream

Of those who are not; thus my anguish grows

My solace, as the salt surf of the seas

Clothes the sharp crags with beauty." Then her mood

Would veer to madness, like a windy change

That brings up thunder, and she rais'd her voice,

Crying, "And yet they are not, they who

were,

And never more shall be accursed dreams!"

And, suddenly becoming motionless,
The bright hue from her cheeks and fore
head pass'd,

And, full of awful resignation, fixing
Her large undazzled orbs upon the sun,
She shriek'd, "Strike, God, thou canst not
harm me more !"

METHOUGHT, as I beheld the rookery pass Homeward at dusk upon the rising wind, How every heart in that close-flying mass Was well befriended by the Almighty mind:

He marks each sable wing that soars or drops,

He sees them forth at morning to their fare,

He sets them floating on His evening air, He sends them home to rest on the treetops:

And when through umber'd leaves the night-winds pour,

With lusty impulse rocking all the grove, The stress is measur'd by an eye of love, No root is burst, though all the branches

roar;

And, in the morning, cheerly as before, The dark clan talks, the social instincts

move.

ORION

How oft I've watch'd thee from the garden croft,

In silence, when the busy day was done, Shining with wondrous brilliancy aloft, And flickering like a casement 'gainst the sun!

I've seen thee soar from out some snowy cloud,

Which held the frozen breath of land and sea,

Yet broke and sever'd as the wind grew loud

But earth-bound winds could not dismember thee,

Nor shake thy frame of jewels; I have guess'd

At thy strange shape and function, haply felt

The charm of that old myth about thy belt And sword; but, most, my spirit was possess'd

By His great Presence, Who is never far From his light-bearers, whether man or star.

TO THE GOSSAMER-LIGHT

QUICK gleam, that ridest on the gossamer!

How oft I see thee, with thy wavering lance,
Tilt at the midges in their evening dance,
A gentle joust set on by summer air!
How oft I watch thee from my garden-
chair!

And, failing that, I search the lawns and bowers,

To find thee floating o'er the fruits and flowers,

And doing thy sweet work in silence there.
Thou art the poet's darling, ever sought
In the fair garden or the breezy mead;
The wind dismounts thee not; thy buoyant
thread

Is as the sonnet, poising one bright thought,
That moves but does not vanish: borne
along
Like light,
-a golden drift through all
the song!

LETTY'S GLOBE

WHEN Letty had scarce pass'd her third glad year,

And her young, artless words began to flow,

One day we gave the child a color'd sphere

Of the wide earth, that she might mark and know,

By tint and outline, all its sea and land. She patted all the world; old empires peep'd

Between her baby fingers; her soft hand Was welcome at all frontiers. How she leap'd,

And laugh'd and prattled in her worldwide bliss ;

But when we turn'd her sweet unlearned eye

On our own isle, she rais'd a joyous cry, "Oh ! yes, I see it, Letty's home is there!" And, while she hid all England with a kiss,

Bright over Europe fell her golden hair