EVELYN HOPE

BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead!

Sit and watch by her side an hour.
That is her book-shelf, this her bed;
She plucked that piece of geranium-flower,
Beginning to die too, in the glass.

Little has yet been changed, I think:
The shutters are shut, no light may pass
Save two long rays through the hinge's chink.

Sixteen years old when she died!

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name;

It was not her time to love; beside,

Her life had many a hope and aim,

Duties enough and little cares,

And now was quiet, now astir,
Till God's hand beckoned unawares,-
And the sweet white brow is all of her.

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope?
What, your soul was pure and true,
The good stars met in your horoscope,
Made you of spirit, fire, and dew-
And, just because I was thrice as old,

And our paths in the world diverged so wide,

Each was naught to each, must I be told?
We were fellow mortals, naught beside?

No, indeed! for God above

Is great to grant, as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love:

I claim you still, for my own love's sake! Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet,

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few: Much is to learn, much to forget

Ere the time be come for taking you.

But the time will come,-at last it will,

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say) In the lower earth, in the years long still, That body and soul so pure and gay?

Remembrance

Why your hair was amber, I shall divine,

And your mouth of your own geranium's red,— And what you would do with me, in fine,

In the new life come in the old one's stead.

I have lived (I shall say) so much since then,
Given up myself so many times,

Gained me the gains of various men,

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope,
Either I missed or itself missed me:
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!
What is the issue? let us see!

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while!

My heart seemed full as it could hold;

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There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold.

So, hush, I will give you this leaf to keep:

See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand!

There, that is our secret: go to sleep!

You will wake, and remember, and understand.

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

REMEMBRANCE

COLD in the earth-and the deep snow piled above thee,

Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!

Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,
Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover Over the mountains, on that northern shore, Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?

Cold in the earth-and fifteen wild Decembers,
From those brown hills, have melted into spring:
Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers
After such years of change and suffering!

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,
While the world's tide is bearing me along;
Other desires and other hopes beset me,

Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

No later light has lightened up my heaven,
No second morn has ever shone for me;
All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,
And even Despair was powerless to destroy;
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.

Then did I check the tears of useless passion-
Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
Down to that tomb already more than mine.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,

Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?

SONG

Emily Bronte [1818-1848]

THE linnet in the rocky dells,

The moor-lark in the air,

The bee among the heather bells
That hide my lady fair:

The wild deer browse above her breast;
The wild birds raise their brood;
And they, her smiles of love caressed,
Have left her solitude.

I ween that, when the grave's dark wall
Did first her form retain,

They thought their hearts could ne'er recall
The light of joy again.

Song of the Old Love

They thought the tide of grief would flow

Unchecked through future years;

But where is all their anguish now,

And where are all their tears?

Well, let them fight for honor's breath,

Or pleasure's shade pursue:

The dweller in the land of death
Is changed and careless too.

And, if their eyes should watch and weep
Till sorrow's source were dry,

She would not, in her tranquil sleep,
Return a single sigh.

Blow, west-wind, by the lonely mound,
And murmur, summer streams!

There is no need of other sound

To soothe my lady's dreams.

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Emily Brontë [1818–1848]

SONG OF THE OLD LOVE

From "Supper at the Mill"

WHEN sparrows build, and the leaves break forth,

My old sorrow wakes and cries,

For I know there is dawn in the far, far north,

And a scarlet sun doth rise;

Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads,

And the icy founts run free,

And the bergs begin to bow their heads,
And plunge, and sail in the sea.

O my lost love, and my own, own love,
And my love that loved me so!

Is there never a chink in the world above

Where they listen for words from below?
Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore,
I remember all that I said,

And now thou wilt hear me no more-no more
Till the sea gives up her dead.

Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, and sail
To the ice-fields and the snow;

Thou wert sad, for thy love did naught avail,
And the end I could not know;

How could I tell I should love thee to-day,

Whom that day I held not dear?
How could I know I should love thee away
When I did not love thee ancar?

We shall walk no more through the sodden plain
With the faded bents o'erspread,

We shall stand no more by the seething main
While the dark wrack drives o'erhead;

We shall part no more in the wind and the rain,
Where thy last farewell was said;

But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee again
When the sea gives up her dead.

Jean Ingelow [1820-1897]

REQUIESCAT

STREW on her roses, roses,
And never a spray of yew!

In quiet she reposes:

Ah! would that I did too.

Her mirth the world required:

She bathed it in smiles of glee.
But her heart was tired, tired,
And now they let her be.

Her life was turning, turning,
In mazes of heat and sound.
But for peace her soul was yearning,
And now peace laps her round.

Her cabined, ample Spirit,

It fluttered and failed for breath.
To-night it doth inherit

The vasty hall of Death.

Matthew Arnold [1822-1888]