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When work was over, and the new-cut hay Sent wafts of balm from meadows where it lay.

Ah! many an eve, while I was yet a boy,

Some village hind has beckoned me aside, And sought mine aid, with shy and awkward joy,

To carve the letters of his rustic bride, And make them clear to read as graven stone, Deep in the yew-tree's trunk beside his own.

For none could carve like me, and here they stand,

Fathers and mothers of this present race; And underscored by some less practised hand, That fain the story of its line would trace, With children's names, and number, and the day When any called to God have passed away.

I look upon them, and I turn aside,

As oft when carving them I did erewhile; And there I see those wooden bridges wide That cross the marshy hollow; there the stile In reeds embedded, and the swelling down, And the white road toward the distant town.

But those old bridges claim another look.

Our brattling river tumbles through the one; The second spans a shallow, weedy brook:

Beneath the others, and beneath the sun, Lie two long stilly pools, and on their breasts Picture their wooden piles, encased in swallows'

nests.

And round about them grows a fringe of reeds, And then a floating crown of lily-flowers, And yet within small silver-budded weeds;

But each clear centre evermore embowers A deeper sky, where, stooping, you may see The little minnows darting restlessly.

My heart is bitter, lilies, at your sweet;
Why did the dewdrop fringe your chalices?
Why in your beauty are you thus complete,
You silver ships-you floating palaces?
O! if need be, you must allure man's eye,
Yet wherefore blossom here? O why? O why?

Oh! oh! the world is wide, you lily-flowers,

It hath warm forests, cleft by stilly pools, Where every night bathe crowds of stars; and bowers

Of spicery hang over. Sweet air cools
And shakes the lilies among those stars that lie,
Why are not ye content to reign there? Why?

That chain of bridges, it were hard to tell
How it is linked with all my early joy.
There was a little foot that I loved well,

It danced across them when I was a boy; There was a careless voice that used to sing; There was a child, a sweet and happy thing.

But afterward, belated in the wood,
I saw her moping on the rifled tree,
And my heart smote me for her, while I stood
Awakened from my careless reverie;

So white she looked, with moonlight round her shed,

So mother-like, she drooped and hung her head.

O that mine eyes would cheat me! I behold
The godwits running by the water-edge,
The mossy bridges mirrored as of old;

The little curlews creeping from the sedge,
But not the little foot so gaily light-

O that mine eyes would cheat me! that I might. Would cheat me! I behold the gable-endsThose purple pigeons clustering on the cote; The lane with maples overhung, that bends

Toward her dwelling; the dry grassy moat, Thick mullions, diamond-latticed, mossed and

gray,

And walls banked up with laurel and with bay.

And up behind them yellow fields of corn,

And still ascending countless firry spires, Dry slopes of hills uncultured, bare, forlorn, And green in rocky clefts with whins and briers;

Then rich cloud-masses dyed the violet's hue, With orange sunbeams dropping swiftly through.

She was my one companion, being herself
The jewel and adornment of my days,
My life's completeness. Oh, a smiling elf,
That I do but disparage with my praise,
My playmate; and I loved her dearly and long,
And she loved me, as the tender love the strong.

Ay, but she grew, till on a time there came
A sudden restless yearning to my heart;
And as we went a-nesting, all for shame

And shyness, I did hold my peace, and start;
Content departed, comfort shut me out,
And there was nothing left to talk about.

She had but sixteen years, and as for me,
Four added made my life. This pretty bird,
This fairy bird that I had cherished-she,

Content, had sung, while I, contented, heard; The song had ceased; the bird with Nature's art Had brought a thorn and set it in my heart.

The restless birth of love my soul oppressed, I longed and wrestled for a tranquil day, And warred with that disquiet in my breast

As one who knows there is a better way; But turned against myself, I still in vain Looked for the ancient calm to come again.

My tired soul would to itself confess

That she deserved a wiser love than mine; To love more truly were to love her less, And for this truth I still awoke to pine;

I had a dim belief that it would be

A better thing for her, a blessed thing for me.

Good hast Thou made them-comforters right sweet;

Good hast Thou made the world, to mankind

lent; Good are Thy dropping clouds that feed the wheat; Good are Thy stars above the firmament. Take to Thee, take, Thy worship, Thy renown; The good which Thou hast made doth wear Thy

crown.

For, O my God, thy creatures are so frail,
Thy bountiful creation is so fair,
That, drawn before us like the temple-veil,

It hides the Holy Place from thought and care, Giving man's eyes instead its sweeping fold, Rich as with cherub wings and apples wrought of gold.

Purple and blue and scarlet-shimmering bells

And rare pomegranates on its broidered rim, Glorious with chain and fretwork that the swell Of incense shakes to music dreamy and dim, Till on a day comes loss, that God makes gain, And death and darkness rend the veil in twain.

Ah, sweetest! my beloved! each outward thing Recalls my youth, and is instinct with thee;

Brown wood-owls in the dusk, with noiseless wing,

Float from yon hanger their haunted tree, And hoot full softly. Listening, I regain A flashing thought of thee with their remembered strain.

Hush! hush! the nightingale begins to sing, And stops, as ill-contented with her note; Then breaks from out the bush with hurried

wing,

Restless and passionate. She tunes her throat,

Laments awhile in wavering trills, and then Floods with a stream of sweetness all the glen.

The seven stars upon the nearest pool

Lie trembling down betwixt the lily-leaves, And move like glowworms; wafting breezes cool

Come down along the water, and it heaves And bubbles in the sedge; while deep and wide The dim night settles on the country-side.

I know this scene by heart. Oh! once before
I saw the seven stars float to and fro,
And stayed my hurried footsteps by the shore
To mark the starry picture spread below:
Its silence made the tumult in my breast
More audible; its peace revealed my own un-
rest.

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For this I had done battle and had won,
But not alone to tread Arabian sands,
Measure the shadows of a southern sun,

Or dig out gods in the old Egyptian lands; But for the dream wherewith I thought to copeThe grief of love unmated with love's hope.

And now I would set reason in array,

Methought, and fight for freedom manfully, Till by long absence there would come a day

When this my love would not be pain to me;
But if I knew my rosebud fair and blest,
I should not pine to wear it on my breast.

The days fled on; another week should fling
A foreign shadow on my lengthening way;
Another week, yet nearness did not bring

A braver heart that hard farewell to say.
I let the last day wane, the dusk begin,
Ere I had sought that window lighted from
within.

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Hope is more brave than fear, and joy than dread,

And I could wait unmoved the parting-time. It came; for, by a sudden impulse drawn, She, risen, stepped out upon the dusky lawn.

A little waxen taper in her hand,

Her feet upon the dry and dewless grass, She looked like one of the celestial band,

Only that on her cheeks did dawn and pass Most human blushes; while, the soft light thrown On vesture pure and white, she seemed yet fairer grown.

Her mother, looking out toward her, sighed,
Then gave her hand in token of farewell,
And with her warning eyes, that seemed to chide,
Scarce suffered that I sought her child, to tell
The story of my life, whose every line
No other burden bore than-Eglantine.

Black thunder-clouds were rising up behind,
The waxen taper burned full steadily;
It seemed as if dark midnight had a mind
To hear what lovers say, and her decree
Had passed for silence, while she, dropped to
ground

With raiment floating wide, drank in the sound.

O happiness! thou dost not leave a trace
So well defined as sorrow. Amber light,
Shed like a glory on her angel-face,

I can remember fully, and the sight
Of her fair forehead and her shining eyes,
And lips that smiled in sweet and girlish wise.

I can remember how the taper played

Over her small hands, and her vesture white; How it struck up into the trees, and laid

Upon their under leaves unwonted light; And when she held it low, how far it spread O'er velvet pansies slumbering on their bed.

I can remember that we spoke full low,

That neither doubted of the other's truth; And that with footsteps slower and more slow, Hands folded close for love, eyes wet for ruth: Beneath the trees, by that clear taper's flame, We wandered till the gate of parting came.

But I forget the parting words she said,

So much they thrilled the all-attentive soul; For one short moment human heart and head May bear such bliss-its present is the whole: I had that present, till in whispers fell With parting gesture her subdued farewell.

Farewell! she said, in act to turn away,
But stood a moment still to dry her tears,
And suffered my enfolding arm to.stay

The time of her departure. O ye years!
That intervene betwixt that day and this,
You all received your hue from that keen pain
and bliss.

O mingled pain and bliss! O pain to break
At once from happiness so lately found,
And four long years to feel for her sweet sake
The incompleteness of all sight and sound!

But bliss to cross once more the foaming brineO bliss, to come again, and make her mine!

I cannot-oh, I cannot more recall!
But I will soothe my troubled thoughts to rest
With musing over journeyings wide, and all
Observance of this active humored West,
And swarming cities steeped in Eastern day,
With swarthy tribes in gold and striped array.

I turn away from these, and straight arise

(Shifting and changing at the restless will); Imbedded in some deep Circassian mead,

White wagon-tilts, and flocks that eat their fill Unseen above, while comely shepherds pass, And scarcely show their heads above the grass. -The red Sahara in an angry glow,

With amber fogs, across its hollows trailed Long strings of camels, gloomy-eyed and slow, And women on their necks from gazers veile 1, And sun-swart guides who toil across the sand To groves of date-trees on the watered land.

Again-the brown sails of an Arab boat,

Flapping by night upon a glassy sea, Whereon the moon and planets seem to float,

More bright of hue than they were wont to be, While shooting-stars rain down with crackling sound,

And, thick as swarming locusts, drop to ground.

Or far into the heat among the sands

The gembok nations, snuffing up the wind,
Drawn by the scent of water-and the bands
Of tawny-bearded lions pacing, blind
With the sun-dazzle in their midst, oppressed
With prey, and spiritless for lack of rest!

What more? Old Lebanon, the frosty-browel,
Setting his feet among oil-olive trees,
Heaving his bare brown shoulder through a
cloud;

And after, grassy Carmel, purple seas, Flattering his dreams and echoing in his rocks, To multiply the bleating of his flocks.

Enough how vain this thinking to beguile,

With recollected scenes, an aching breast! Did not I, journeying, muse on her the while? Ah, yes! for every landscape comes impressed, Ay, written on, as by an iron pen, With the same thought I nursed about her then.

Therefore let memory turn again to home;

Feel, as of old, the joy of drawing near; Watch the green breakers and the wind-tossed foam,

And see the land-fog break, dissolve, and

clear;

Then think a skylark's voice far sweeter sound Than ever thrilled, but over English ground.

And walk, glad, even to tears, among the wheat, Not doubting this to be the first of lands; And while in foreign words this murmuring, meet Some little village school-girls (with their hands

Full of forget-me-nots), who, greeting me,

I count their English talk delightsome melody