The Poets that you used to read to me

While summer twilights faded in the sky; But most of all I think Aurora Leigh,

Because-because-do you remember why?

Will you be jealous? Did you guess before

I loved so many things? Still you the best : Dearest, remember that I love you more, Oh, more a thousand times, than all the rest!

A DEAD PAST.

SPARE her at least: look, you have taken from

me

The Present, and I murmur not, nor moan; The Future too, with all her glorious promise; But do not leave me utterly alone.

Spare me the Past: for, see, she cannot harm you,

She lies so white and cold, wrapped in her shroud;

All, all my own! and, trust me, I will hide her Within my soul, nor speak to her aloud.

I folded her soft hands upon her bosom, And strewed my flowers upon her-they still live:

Sometimes I like to kiss her closed white eyelids,
And think of all the joy she used to give.

Cruel indeed it were to take her from me;
She sleeps, she will not wake-no fear-again:
And so I laid her, such a gentle burden,
Quietly on my heart to still its pain.

I do not think that any smiling Present,
Any vague Future, spite of all her charms,
Could ever rival her. You know you laid her,
Long years ago, then living, in my arms.

Leave her at least: while my tears fall upon her,
I dream she smiles, just as she did of yore;
As dear as ever to me-nay, it may be,
Even dearer still-since I have nothing more.

On the old theme I pondered long,
The struggle between right and wrong;
I could not check such visions high,
To soothe a little quivering sigh.

I tried to solve the problem-Life;
Dreaming of that mysterious strife,
How could I leave such reasonings wise,
To answer two blue pleading eyes?

I strove how best to give, and when
My blood to save my fellow-men-
How could I turn aside, to look
At snowdrops laid upon my book?

Now Time has fled-the word is strange,
Something there is of pain and change;
My books lie closed upon the shelf;
I miss the old heart in myself.

I miss the sunbeams in my room,

It was not always wrapped in gloom :

I miss my dreams-they fade so fast,

Or flit into some trivial past.

The great stream of the world goes by;
None care, or heed, or question, why
I, the lone student, cannot raise
My voice or hand as in old days.

No echo seems to wake again
My heart to anything but pain,
Save when a dream of twilight brings
The fluttering of an angel's wings!

LINGER, O GENTLE TIME.

LINGER, O gentle Time,

Linger, O radiant grace of bright To-day! Let not the hours' chime

Call thee away,

But linger near me still with fond delay.

Linger, for thou art mine!

What dearer treasures can the future hold? What sweeter flowers than thine

Can she unfold?

What secrets tell my heart thou hast not told?

Oh, linger in thy flight!

For shadows gather round, and should we part, A dreary, starless night

May fill my heart

Then pause and linger yet ere thou depart.

Linger, I ask no more

Thou art enough forever-thou alone: What future can restore,

When thou art flown,

All that I hold from thee and call my own?

LIFE AND DEATH.

"WHAT is Life, father?"

"A battle, my child,

Where the strongest lance may fail,
Where the wariest eyes may be beguiled,
And the stoutest heart may quail;
Where the foes are gathered on every hand,
And rest not day or night,

And the feeble little ones must stand
In the thickest of the fight."

The chill dark night draws near,

Thy sun will soon depart, And leave thee sighing; Then mourn, rejoicing heart, The hours are flying!

Rejoice, O grieving heart!
The hours fly fast;

With each some sorrow dies,

With each some shadow flies, Until at last

The red dawn in the east

Bids weary night depart, And pain is past. Rejoice then, grieving heart, The hours fly fast!

THE WAYSIDE INN.

A LITTLE past the village
The Inn stood, low and white;
Green shady trees behind it,

And an orchard on the right;
Where over the green paling

The red-cheeked apples hung, As if to watch how wearily

The sign-board creaked and swung.

The heavy-laden branches,

Over the road hung low,
Reflected fruit or blossom

From the wayside well below;
Where children, drawing water,
Looked up and paused to see,
Amid the apple-branches,
A purple Judas-Tree.

The road stretched winding onward
For many a weary mile-
So dusty, foot-sore wanderers

Would pause and rest awhile-
And panting horses halted,

And travellers loved to tell The quiet of the wayside inn, The orchard, and the well.

Here Maurice dwelt, and often The sunburnt boy would stand Gazing upon the distance,

And shading with his hand His eyes, while watching vainly For travellers who might need His aid to loose the bridle,

And tend the weary steed.

And once (the boy remembered That morning many a dayThe dew lay on the hawthorn,

The bird sang on the spray) A train of horsemen, nobler Than he had seen before, Up from the distance galloped, And halted at the door.

Upon a milk-white pony,

Fit for a faery queen,

Was the loveliest little damsel His eyes had ever seen:

A serving-man was holding
The leading rein, to guide
The pony and its mistress,

Who cantered by his side.

Her sunny ringlets round her
A golden cloud had made,
While her large hat was keeping
Her calm blue eyes in shade;
One hand held fast the silken reins
To keep her steed in check,
The other pulled his tangled mane,
Or stroked his glossy neck.

And as the boy brought water,

And loosed the rein, he heard The sweetest voice that thanked him In one low gentle word; She turned her blue eyes from him, Looked up, and smiled to see The hanging purple blossoms Upon the Judas-Tree;

And showed it with a gesture, Half pleading, half command, Till he broke the fairest blossom, And laid it in her hand;

And she tied it to the saddle

With a ribbon from her hair, While her happy laugh rang gaily, Like silver on the air.

But the champing steeds were rested-
The horsemen now spurred on,
And down the dusty highway

They vanished and were gone.
Years passed, and many a traveller
Paused at the old inn-door,
But the little milk-white pony

And the child returned no more.

Years passed, the apple-branches
A deeper shadow shed;
And many a time the Judas-Tree,
Blossom and leaf, lay dead;
When on the loitering western breeze
Came the bells' merry sound,
And flowery arches rose, and flags
And banners waved around.

Maurice stood there expectant: The bridal train would stay Some moments at the inn-door,

The eager watchers say;

571

They come the cloud of dust draws near'Mid all the state and pride, He only sees the golden hair

And blue eyes of the bride.

The same, yet, ah, still fairer;
He knew the face once more
That bent above the pony's neck
Years past at that inn-door:
Her shy and smiling eyes looked round,
Unconscious of the place,
Unconscious of the eager gaze

He fixed upon her face.

He plucked a blossom from the treeThe Judas-Tree-and cast

Its purple fragrance toward the bride,
A message from the Past.

The signal came, the horses plunged-
Once more she smiled around:
The purple blossom in the dust
Lay trampled on the ground.

Again the slow years fleeted,
Their passage only known
By the height the Passion-flower
Around the porch had grown;
And many a passing traveller
Paused at the old inn-door,
But the bride so fair and blooming,
The bride returned no more.

One winter morning, Maurice,
Watching the branches bare,
Rustling and waving dimly

In the gray and misty air,
Saw blazoned on a carriage
Once more the well-known shield,
The stars and azure fleurs-de-lis
Upon a silver field.

He looked-was that pale woman,
So grave, so worn, so sad,
The child once young and smiling,
The bride once fair and glad?
What grief had dimmed that glory,
And brought that dark eclipse
Upon her blue eyes' radiance,

And paled those trembling lips?

What memory of past sorrow,
What stab of present pain,
Brought that deep look of anguish,
That watched the dismal rain,
That watched (with the absent spirit
That looks yet does not see)
The dead and leafless branches
Upon the Judas-Tree?

The slow dark months crept onward
Upon their icy way,
Till April broke in showers,

And spring smiled forth in May; Upon the apple-blossoms

The sun shone bright again, When slowly up the highway Came a long funeral train.

The bells tolled slowly, sadly,
For a noble spirit fled;
Slowly, in pomp and honor,
They bore the quiet dead.
Upon a black-plumed charger
One rode who held a shield,
Where stars and azure fleurs-de-lis
Shone on a silver field.

'Mid all that homage given
To a fluttering heart at rest,
Perhaps an honest sorrow
Dwelt only in one breast.
One by the inn-door standing
Watched with fast-dropping tears
The long procession passing,
And thought of bygone years.

The boyish, silent homage

To child and bride unknown, The pitying, tender sorrow Kept in his heart alone, Now laid upon the coffin With a purple flower, might be Told to the cold, dead sleeper; The rest could only see A fragrant purple blossom, Plucked from a Judas-Tree.

INCOMPLETENESS.

NOTHING resting in its own completeness
Can have worth or beauty: but alone
Because it leads and tends to further sweetness,
Fuller, higher, deeper than its own.

Spring's real glory dwells not in the meaning,
Gracious though it be, of her blue hours;
But is hidden in her tender leaning
To the Summer's richer wealth of flowers.

Dawn is fair, because the mists fade slowly
Into Day, which floods the world with light;
Twilight's mystery is so sweet and holy
Just because it ends in starry night.

Childhood's smiles unconscious graces borrow
From Strife, that in a far-off future lies;
And angel glances (veiled now by Life's sorrow)
Draw our hearts to some beloved eyes.

Life is only bright when it proceedeth
Toward a truer, deeper Life above;
Human Love is sweetest when it leadeth
To a more divine and perfect Love.

Learn the mystery of Progression duly:
Do not call each glorious change, Decay;
But know we only hold our treasures truly,
When it seems as if they passed away.

Nor dare to blame God's gifts for incomplete