Tho' other lips be pressed to his, In that true heart that once was mine; Yet, oh! I cry it in my grief, I cry it blindly in my pain, I know it will not bring relief, ARTHUR GREY BUTLER. XVII TO EDWARD WILLIAMS THE serpent is shut out from paradise. The wounded deer must seek the herb no more In which its heart-cure lies: The widowed dove must cease to haunt a bower Like that from which its mate with feignèd sighs Fled in the April hour. I too must seldom seek again Near happy friends a mitigated pain. Of hatred I am proud,—with scorn content ; Indifference, that once hurt me, now is grown Itself indifferent. But, not to speak of love, pity alone Can break a spirit already more than bent. The miserable one Turns the mind's poison into food, Its medicine is tears, -its evil good. C Therefore, if now I see you seldomer, Dear friends, dear friend! know that I only fly Griefs that should sleep, and hopes that cannot die : The very comfort that they minister I scarce can bear, yet I, So deeply is the arrow gone, Should quickly perish if it were withdrawn. When I return to my cold home, you ask Of acting a forced part in life's dull scene,- Of author, great or mean, In the world's carnival. I sought Peace thus, and but in you I found it not. Full half an hour, to-day, I tried my lot With various flowers, and every one still said, And if this meant a vision long since fled- To speak what you may know too well: The crane o'er seas and forests seeks her home; The sleepless billows on the ocean's breast Doubtless there is a place of peace Where my weak heart and all its throbs will cease. I asked her, yesterday, if she believed His heart with words,—but what his judgment bade Would do, and leave the scorner unrelieved. These verses are too sad To send to you, but that I know, Happy yourself, you feel another's woe. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. XVIII GODFRID TO OLIVE (FROM The Human Tragedy) ACCEPT it, Olive? Surely, yes; No rudest art, no brightest ore, Could make its value less or more. Gone is my strength. 'Twere useless quite To tell you that it is not hard To have one's paradise in sight, And yet the generous glimpse you gave Hard! very hard, sweet! but ordained. We know 'tis God's own world, at worst. And we have only partly drained, And so still partly thirst; While others parched remain, or seize So let us strive to deem it well, You loved me too well to deny : We spared the fruit of Good-and-Ill; O sunshine in profoundest gloom, To know that on the earth there dwells, Somewhere, unseen, one woman whom No noblest thought excels; And that by valour to resign, I make her more than ever mine. Too late, too late, I learn how sweet Now-now, I scarce know which is best, To strive, or lay me down and rest. O winter in the sunless land! O narrowed day! O darker night! O loss of all that let me stand A giant in the fight! I dwindle: for I see, and sigh, A mated bird is more than I. God bless you, Olive! Even so God bless your husband! He, if true Only less dear than you. But should he hurt his tender charge- Yes yes!-God bless your wedded lot! Thine, thine, come aught, come all amiss. ALFRED AUSTIN. XIX REMEMBER me-on! pass not thou my grave Without one thought whose relics there recline: The only pang my bosom dare not brave My fondest faintest-latest accents hear- The first-last-sole reward of so much love! XX ΤΟ WHEN passion's trance is overpast, |