Oh, serious eyes! how is it that the light,
The burning rays that mine pour into ye,
Still find ye cold, and dead, and dark, as night -
Oh, lifeless eyes! can ye not answer me?
Oh, lips! whereon mine own so often dwell,
Hath love's warm, fearful, thrilling touch, no spell
To waken sense in ye? - oh, misery! -
Oh, breathless lips! can ye not speak to me?
Thou soulless mimicry of life! my tears
Fall scalding over thee; in vain, in vain;
I press thee to my heart, whose hopes, and fears,
Are all thine own; thou dost not feel the strain.
Oh, thou dull image! wilt thou not reply
To my fond prayers and wild idolatry?

We stood by the river that swept
    In its glory and grandeur away;
But never a pulse o' me leapt,
    And you wondered at me that day.

We stood by the lake as it lay
    With its dimpled face turned to the light;
Was it strange I had nothing to say
    To so fair and enchanting a sight?

I look on your tresses of gold -
    You are fair and a thing to be loved -
Do you think I am heartless and cold
    That I look and am wholly unmoved?

One answer, dear friend, I will make
    To the questions your eyes ask of me:
"Talk not of the river or lake
    To those who have looked on the sea"

Let me not mar that perfect dream
By an auroral stain,
But so adjust my daily night
That it will come again.

I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong,
    I shun the thought that lurks in all delight--
    The thought of thee--and in the blue Heaven's height,
And in the sweetest passage of a song.

Oh, just beyond the fairest thoughts that throng
    This breast, the thought of thee waits, hidden yet bright;
    But it must never, never come in sight;
I must stop short of thee the whole day long.

But when sleep comes to close each difficult day,
    When night gives pause to the long watch I keep,
            And all my bonds I needs must loose apart,

Must doff my will as raiment laid away,--
    With the first dream that comes with the first sleep
            I run, I run, I am gathered to thy heart.

Go! heart of mine! the way is long --
The night is dark -- the place is far;
Go! kneel and pray, or chant a song,
Beside two graves where Mary's star
Shines o'er two children's hearts at rest,
With Mary's medals on their breast.

Go! heart! those children loved you so,
Their little lips prayed oft for you!
But ah! those necks are lying low
Round which you twined the badge of blue.
Go to their graves, this Virgin's feast,
With poet's song and prayer of priest.

Go! like a pilgrim to a shrine,
For that is holy ground where sleep
Children of Mary and of thine;
Go! kneel, and pray and sing and weep;
Last summer how their faces smiled
When each was blessed as Mary's child.

    *    *    *    *    *

My heart is gone! I cannot sin...

From the first gleam of morning to the gray
Of peaceful evening, lo, a life unrolled!
In woven pictures all its changes told,
Its lights, its shadows, every flitting ray,
Till the long curtain, falling, dims the day,
Steals from the dial's disk the sunlight's gold,
And all the graven hours grow dark and cold
Where late the glowing blaze of noontide lay.
Ah! the warm blood runs wild in youthful veins, -
Let me no longer play with painted fire;
New songs for new-born days! I would not tire
The listening ears that wait for fresher strains
In phrase new-moulded, new-forged rhythmic chains,
With plaintive measures from a worn-out lyre.

The hand that fashioned me, tuned my ear
    To chord with the major key,
In the darkest moments of life I hear
Strains of courage, and hope, and cheer
    From choirs that I cannot see.
And the music of life seems so inspired
That it will not let me grow sad or tired.

Yet through and under the major strain,
    I hear with the passing of years,
The mournful minor measure of pain,
Of souls that struggle and toil in vain
    For a goal that never nears.
And the sorrowful cadence of good gone wrong,
Breaks more and more into earth's glad song.

And oft in the dark of the night I wake
    And think of sorrowing lives,
And I long to comfort the hearts that ache,
To sweeten the cup that is bitter to take,
    And to strengthen each soul that st...

Qual ventura mi fu, quando dall' uno.

HE REJOICES AT PARTICIPATING IN HER SUFFERINGS.


    Strange, passing strange adventure! when from one
Of the two brightest eyes which ever were,
Beholding it with pain dis urb'd and dim,
Moved influence which my own made dull and weak.
I had return'd, to break the weary fast
Of seeing her, my sole care in this world,
Kinder to me were Heaven and Love than e'en
If all their other gifts together join'd,
When from the right eye--rather the right sun--
Of my dear Lady to my right eye came
The ill which less my pain than pleasure makes;
As if it intellect possess'd and wings
It pass'd, as stars that shoot along the sky:
Nature and pity then pursued their course.

ANON.

"Can anything avail
Beldame, for my hid grief? -
Listen: I'll tell the tale,
It may bring faint relief! -

"I came where I was not known,
In hope to flee my sin;
And walking forth alone
A young man said, 'Good e'en.'

"In gentle voice and true
He asked to marry me;
'You only - only you
Fulfil my dream!' said he.

"We married o' Monday morn,
In the month of hay and flowers;
My cares were nigh forsworn,
And perfect love was ours.

"But ere the days are long
Untimely fruit will show;
My Love keeps up his song,
Undreaming it is so.

"And I awake in the night,
And think of months gone by,
And of that cause of flight
Hidden from my Love's eye.

"Discovery borders near,
And then! . . . But som...

"O I am weary!" she sighed, as her billowy
Hair she unloosed in a torrent of gold
That rippled and fell o'er a figure as willowy,
Graceful and fair as a goddess of old:
Over her jewels she flung herself drearily,
Crumpled the laces that snowed on her breast,
Crushed with her fingers the lily that wearily
Clung in her hair like a dove in its nest.
And naught but her shadowy form in the mirror
To kneel in dumb agony down and weep near her!

"Weary?" Of what? Could we fathom the mystery?
Lift up the lashes weighed down by her tears
And wash with their dews one white face from her history,
Set like a gem in the red rust of years?
Nothing will rest her - unless he who died of her
Strayed from his grave, and in place of the groom,
Tipping her face, kneeling the...

The air is like a butterfly
    With frail blue wings.
The happy earth looks at the sky
    And sings.

Recit.
Beneath a verdant laurel's ample shade
His lyre to mournful numbers strung,
Horace, immortal bard supinely laid,
To Venus thus address'd the song;
Ten thousand little loves around,
Listening dwelt on every sound.

Ariet.
Potent Venus, bid thy son
Sound no more his dire alarms:
Youth on silent wings is flown;
Graver years come rolling on,
Spare my age unfit for arms:
Safe and humble let me rest,
From all amorous care released.
Potent Venus, bid thy son
Sound no more his dire alarms.

Recit.
Yet, Venus, why do I each morn prepare
The fragrant wreath for Cloe's hair?
Why, why do I all day lament and sigh,
Unless the beauteous maid be nigh?
And why all night pursue her in my dreams
Through flowery meads and cryst...

        Willie speaks.

Is it wrong, the wish to be great,
    For I do wish it so?
I have asked already my sister Kate;
    She says she does not know.

Yestereve at the gate I stood
    Watching the sun in the west;
When I saw him look so grand and good
    It swelled up in my breast.

Next from the rising moon
    It stole like a silver dart;
In the night when the wind began his tune
    It woke with a sudden start.

This morning a trumpet blast
    Made all the cottage quake;
It came so sudden and shook so fast
    It blew me wide awake.

It told me I must make haste,
    And some great glory win,
For every day was running to waste,
    And at once I must begin.

I want to be great and strong,

Cloe beauty has, and wit,
And an air that is not common;
Every charm in her does meet,
Fit to make a handsome woman.

But we do not only find
Here a lovely face or feature,
For she's merciful and kind;
Beauty's answer'd by good-nature.

She is always doing good,
Of her favours never sparing,
And, as all good Christians should,
Keeps poor mortals from despairing.

Jove the power knew of her charms,
And that no man could endure 'em,
So providing 'gainst all harms,
Gave to her the power to cure 'em,

And 'twould be a cruel thing,
When her black eyes have raised desire,
Should she not her bucket bring,
And kindly help to quench the fire.

Once there lived, I'm not sure where,
    May be Arcadee,
Sweet-Heart and his mistress fair,
    Little He and She;

And they danced a measure light,
    Danced in very glee.
Hand in hand, a pretty sight,
    Little He and She.

When they ceased his bright eyes fell,
    Darling must we stay?
Can't we dance so happily
    You and I for aye?

Then she clasped his hand again,
    Whispered sweet and low,
"Dearest, always hand in hand
    You and I will go."

So they danced with merry feet,
    E'en in Arcadee,
Happier pair you ne'er will meet,
    Little He and She.

I.

My food is but spare,
And humble my cot,
Yet Jesus dwells there
And blesses my lot:
Though thinly I'm clad,
And tempests oft roll,
He's raiment, and bread,
And drink to my soul.

II.

His presence is wealth,
His grace is a treasure,
His promise is health
And joy out of measure.
His word is my rest,
His spirit my guide:
In Him I am blest
Whatever betide.

III.

Since Jesus is mine,
Adieu to all sorrow;
I ne'er shall repine,
Nor think of to-morrow:
The lily so fair,
And raven so black,
He nurses with care,
Then how shall I lack?

IV.

Each promise is sure,
That shines in His word,
And tells me, though poor,
I'm rich in my Lord.
Hence!    Sorrow ...

It is over. What is over?
    Nay, now much is over truly! -
Harvest days we toiled to sow for;
    Now the sheaves are gathered newly,
    Now the wheat is garnered duly.

It is finished. What is finished?
    Much is finished known or unknown:
Lives are finished; time diminished;
    Was the fallow field left unsown?
    Will these buds be always unblown?

It suffices. What suffices?
    All suffices reckoned rightly:
Spring shall bloom where now the ice is,
    Roses make the bramble sightly,
    And the quickening sun shine brightly,
    And the latter wind blow lightly,
And my garden teem with spices.

We welcome thy coming, bright, sunny Spring,
    To this snow-clad land of ours,
For sunshine and music surround thy steps,
    Thy pathway is strewn with flowers;
And vainly stern Winter, with brow of gloom,
    Attempted for awhile
To check thy coming - he had to bow
    To the might of thy sunny smile.

A touch of thy wand, and our streams and lakes
    Are freed from his tyrant sway,
And their clear blue depths in ripples of gold
    Reflect back the sun's bright ray;
Whilst e'en the rude rocks that their waters fret
    Put on mosses green and bright,
And silent, deep homage render up now,
    Sweet Spring, to thy magic might.

And what words could tell half the wond'rous change
    Thou mak'st in our forest bowers,
Replacing the snow ...