CLIII.

SNOWDROPS.

Without, the dry trees groan and shiver,
The curtained sun in his cloud doth sleep,
And thro' the chamber-casement ever
Murmurs the roll of the distant deep.

By the maiden's side on the couch were lying,
Blending their delicate green and white,
Children of winter, half-closed and dying,
Flowers that are born ere spring is in sight.

Slowly she spake in a voice of sorrow
"Gentle flowers, live yet to day,
But when I shall have died tomorrow,
Droop ye, and wither, and fall away.

"Yet a few hours, then droop and wither; Silently fade and fall with me;

Far from the sun we will rest together,

Shut from the sound of the moaning sea."

Ah, poor maid! nor father nor mother
Soothe thy spirit passing away;
Only my hands, the hands of a brother,
Gathered those snowdrops yesterday.

Why wilt thou take the heart I cherished?
Rightly, O Death, art thou called unkind-
Victims twain by this stroke have perished,
One in body-and one in mind.

P. S. Worsley.

CLIV.

HUSH!

"I can scarcely hear," she murmured,
"For my heart beats loud and fast,
But surely, in the far, far distance,
I can hear a sound at last."

66

It is only the reapers singing,
As they carry home their sheaves;
And the evening breeze has risen,
And rustles the dying leaves."

"Listen! there are voices talking,"
Calmly still she strove to speak,
Yet her voice grew faint and trembling,
And the red flushed in her cheek.

66

It is only the children playing
Below, now their work is done,
And they laugh that their eyes are dazzled
By the rays of the setting sun.'

Fainter grew her voice and weaker,
As with anxious eyes she cried,
"Down the avenue of chesnuts,
I can hear a horseman ride."

66

It is only the deer that are feeding
In a herd on the clover grass,

They are startled, and fly to the thicket,
As they see the reapers pass.”

Now the night arose in silence,
Birds lay in their leafy nest,

And the deer couched in the forest,
And the children were at rest:
There was only a sound of weeping
From watchers round a bed,
But Rest to the weary spirit,

Peace to the quiet Dead!

Miss Procter.

CLV.

PERFECT REST.

Where sunless rivers weep
Their waves into the deep,
She sleeps a charmèd sleep:
Awake her not.

Led by a single star,
She came from very far
To seek where shadows are
Her pleasant lot.

She left the rosy morn,
She left the fields of corn
For twilight cold and lorn
And water springs.

Thro' sleep, as through a veil,
She sees the sky look pale,
And hears the nightingale
That sadly sings.

Rest, rest, a perfect rest
Shed over brow and breast;
Her face is toward the west,
The purple land.

She cannot see the grain
Ripening on hill and plain;
She cannot feel the rain
Upon her hand.

Rest, rest, for evermore
Upon a mossy shore;

Rest rest at the heart's core
Till time shall cease:

Sleep that no pain shall wake,
Night that no morn shall break
Till joy shall overtake

Her perfect peace.

Q

Miss Rosetti.

CLVI.

THE POET'S GRAVE.

Let him rest! let him rest!

With the green earth on his breast;

The daisies grow about him and the long sedge-grasses wave. What call or right have you,

Ye mercenary crew,

To lift the pitying veil that shrouds him in the grave?
"Tis true this man could sing,
Like lark in early spring,

Or tender nightingale, deep hidden in the bowers;—
"Tis true that he was wise,

And that his heavenward eyes,

Saw far beyond the clouds that dim this world of ours;

And peer into his heart for flaws, and spots, and stains ? And all because his voice

Bade multitudes rejoice,

And cheered Humanity amid its griefs and pains?

Let them rest, their sorrows o'er,
All the mighty bards of yore!

And if, ye diggers-up of scandals dead and gone,

Ye find, amid the slime,

Some sin of ancient time,

Some fault or seeming-fault, that Shakespeare might have done;

Some spot on Milton's truth,

Or Byron's glowing youth;

Some error, not too small for microscopic gaze:

Shroud it in deepest gloom,

As on your father's tomb

You'd hush the evil tongues that spoke in his dispraise.

Shroud it in darkest night!

Or, if compelled to write

Tell us the inspiring tale of perils overcome:
Of struggles for the good,

Of courage unsubdued,

But let their frailties rest, and on their faults be dumb!

Charles Mackay.

CLVII.

My days among the Dead are past;
Around me I behold,

Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old:

My never failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.

With them I take delight in weal,
And seek relief in woe;

And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe;

My cheeks have often been bedew'd

With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

My thoughts are with the Dead; with them
I live in long past years,

Their virtues love, their faults condemn,

Partake their hopes and fears,

And from their lessons seek and find

Instruction with an humble mind.

My hopes are with the Dead; anon
My place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on
Through all Futurity;

Yet leaving here a name I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.

Southey.