Nor the life-blood of thy frame, Yet know thy tears too late,— Had they sooner fallen-well; Physician-canst thou weep? Then let tears thy pillow steep! Couldst thou view Time's heaving wave, Doomed to 'whelm me in its grave,— Then whispered aught of death, Though nature in the strife, Had loosed her hold on life, This, this, and who can tell, But my soul had 'scaped from hell! False prophet! flattering priest! Thou didst make the "narrow way," As the broad one, smooth and gay; Of the bright and better land; That the soul, unchanged within, Of God and Christ unshriven, THE MAIDEN ASTROLOGER. Her thoughts were not like girlhood's; bird nor flower Assumed its perfect beauty, never blush Nor smile spoke vanity or love; her hours were passed Shed a mysterious light upon the scroll, On whose strange characters she pored; the night Still found her on the terrace, her dark eyes Filled with the wild light of the stars she watched,- OVER the terrace the bright stars shine, The breath of the orange and rose they bear; This is a night for the maiden to dream Of the love which will colour her life's pure stream ;— This is a night for the maiden to pray, Whose heart has been given, whose love is away! Young is the maiden that watches the sky, There is no love on her cheek, or her eye. Love doth colour the young cheek with rose, The sudden rush of its crimson tide; |