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It seemed the harmonious echo

From our discordant life.

It linked all perplexed meanings

Into one perfect peace,
And trembled away into silence,

As if it were loath to cease.

A LOST CHORD. SEATED one day at the organ,

I was weary and ill at ease,
And my fingers wandered idly

Over the noisy keys.
I do not know what I was playing,

Or what I was dreaming then,
But I struck one chord of music,

Like the sound of a great Amen. It flooded the crimson twilight,

Like the close of an angel's psalm, And it lay on my severed spirit,

With a touch of infinite calm. It quieted pain and sorrow,

Like love overcoming strife;

I have sought, but I seek it vainly,

That one lost chord divine,
That came from the soul of the organ,

And entered into mine.

It may be that Death's bright angel

Will speak in that chord again; It may be that only in heaven

I shall hear that grand Amen.

DINAH MARIA MULOCK (CRAIK).

1826–1887. [BORN at Stoke-upon-Trent, Staffordshire, in 1826. Published her first novel, The Ogilvies, in 1849, followed by numerous others, among, which John Halifax, Gentleman, 1857, is the most noted. In 1864 she obtained a literary pension of £60 a year, and in 1865 was married to Mr. George Lillie Craik, a nephew of the literary historian of the same name.] DOUGLAS, DOUGLAS, TENDER I never was worthy of you, Douglas; AND TRUE.

Not half worthy the like of you:

Now all men beside seem to me like COULD ye come back to me, Douglas,

shadows Douglas,

I love you, Douglas, tender and true. In the old likeness that I knew, I would be so faithful, so loving, Doug

Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, las,

Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. Drop forgiveness from heaven like

dew;

As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Never a scornful word should grieve ye, Douglas,

I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

PHILIP MY KING. O to call back the days that are not !

“Who bears

upon his baby brow the round My eyes were blinded, your words

And top of sovereignty." were few:

Look at me with thy large brown eyes, Do you know the truth now up in Philip my king, heaven,

Round whom the enshadowing purple Douglas, Douglas, tender and true?

lies

do;

Of babyhood's royal dignities :
Lay on my neck thy tiny hand
With love's invisible sceptre laden;
I am thine Esther to command
Till thou shalt find a queen-handmaiden,

Philip my king.
O the day when thou goest a wooing,

Philip my king!
When those beautiful lips 'gin suing,
And some gentle heart's bars undoing
Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and

there
Sittest love-glorified. Rule kindly,
Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair,
For we that love, ah! we love so blindly,

Philip my king.

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Up from thy sweet mouth — up to thy

brow,

Philip my king!
The spirit that there lies sleeping now

GERALD MASSEY.

1828

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[Born at Tring, in Herefordshire, May 29, 1828. He received a scanty education at the British and National schools. At the age of fifteen he went to London, and served as an errandboy. His first volume, Poems and Chansons, was published about 1846. In 1849 he published Voices of Freedom, and Lyrics of Love. The Ballad of Babe Christabel, and other Poems, appeared in 1855; Craigcrook Castle and Other Poems, in 1856; Havelock's March and Other Poems, in 1861. His latest work is A Tale of Eternity and Other Poems, 1869. In 1873 he made a lecturing tour in the United States.]

O, LAY THY HAND IN MINE, DEAR! 0, LAY thy hand in mine, dear!

A many cares are pressing
We're growing old;

On this dear head;
But Time hath brought no sign, dear, But Sorrow's hands in blessing
That hearts grow cold.

Are surely laid.
'Tis long, long since our new love
Made life divine;

O, Tean thy life on mine, dear! But age enricheth true love,

'Twill shelter thee. Like noble wine.

Thou wert a winsome vine, dear,

On my young tree:
And lay thy cheek to mine, dear, And so, till boughs are leafless,
And take thy rest;

And songbirds flown,
Mine arms around thee twine, dear, We'll twine, then lay us, griefless,
And make thy nest.

Together down.

But evermore the halo

Of angel-light increased,
Like the mystery of moonlight

That folds some fairy feast.
Snow-white, snow-soft, snow-silently

Our darling bud upcurled,
And dropt i' the grave — God's lap-

our wee
White Rose of all the world.

OUR WEE WHITE ROSE. All in our marriage garden

Grew, smiling up to God, A bonnier flower than ever

Suckt the green warmth of the sod;
O, beautiful unfathomably

Its little life unfurled;
And crown of all things was our wee

White Rose of all the world.
From out a balmy bosom

Our buå of beauty grew;
It fed on smiles for sunshine,

On tears for daintier dew:
Aye nestling warm and tenderly,

Our leaves of love were curled
So close and close abuut our wee

White Rose of all the world. With mystical faint fragrance

Our house of life she filled; Revealed each hour some fairy tower

Where wingèd hopes might build ! We saw — though none like us might

Our Rose was but in blossom,

Our life was but in spring,
When down the solemn midnight

We heard the spirits sing,
“ Another bud of infancy

With holy dews impearled!”
And in their hands they bore our wee

White Rose of all thy world.

You scarce could think so small a thing

Could leave a loss so large;
Her little light such shadow fling

From dawn to sunset's marge.
In other springs our life may be

In bannered bloom unfurled,
But never, never match our wee

White Rose of all the world.

see

Such precious promise pearled Upon the petals of our wee

White Rose of all the world.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

1828–1889.

(BORN at Ballyshannon, in the north-west part of Ireland. After contributing to the Athenæum, Household Words, and other periodicals, his first volume, Poems, was published in 1850; in 1854, Day and Night Songs appeared, and in 1855 an enlarged edition, with illustrations by D. G. Rossetti, Millais, and A. Hughes; Laurence Bloomfield in Ireland, a Modern Poem in twelve chapters, in 1869; Songs, Poems, and Ballads, 1877.]

LOVELY MARY DONNELLY. O LOVELY Mary Donnelly, it's you I love | Her eyes like mountain water that's the best!

flowing on a rock, If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly How clear they are, how dark they are ! see the rest.

and they give me many a shock. Be what it may the time of day, the place Red rowans warm in sunshine, and be where it will,

wetted with a shower, Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they Could ne'er express the charming lip bloom before me still,

that has me in its power.

Her nose is straight and handsome, her o lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's eyebrows lifted up,

my distress; Her chin is very neat and pert, and It's far too beauteous to be mine, bu smooth like a china cup,

I'll never wish it less. Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so The proudest place would fit your face weighty and so fine;

and I am poor and low; It's rolling down upon her neck, and But blessings be about you, dear, where gathered in a twine.

ever you may go! The dance o' last Whit-Monday night

exceeded all before; No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor;

THE FAIRIES. But Mary kept the belt of love, and O,

Up the airy mountain, but she was gay!

Down the rushy glen, She danced a jig, she sung a song, that We daren't yo a nunting took my heart away.

For fear of little men; When she stood up for dancing, her

Wee folk, good folk, steps were so complete

Trooping all together; The music nearly killed itself to listen

Green jacket, red cap, to her feet;

And white owl's feather ! The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised,

Down along the rocky shore But blessed himself he wasn't deaf

Some make their home, when once her voice she raised. They live on crispy pancakes

Of yellow tide-foam; And evermore I'm whistling or lilting Some in the reeds what you sung,

Of the black mountain-lake, Your smile is always in my heart, your

With frogs for their watch-dogs, name beside my tongue;

All night awake. But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands,

High on the hill-top And for myself there's not a thumb or

The old King sits; little finger stands.

He is now so old and gray

He's nigh lost his wits. O, you're the flower o womankind in

With a bridge of white mist

Columbkill he crosses, country or in town; The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm

On his stately journeys cast down.

From Slieveleague to Rosses; If some great lord should come this way,

Or going up with music and see your beauty bright,

On cold starry nights, And you to be his lady, I'd own it was

To sup with the queen but right.

Of the gay Northern Lights. O, might we live together in a lofty They stole little Bridget palace hall,

For seven years long; Where joyful music rises, and where When she came down again scarlet curtains fall!

Her friends were all gone. O, might we live together in a cottage They took her lightly back, mean and small;

Between the night and morrow; With sods of grass the only roof, and They thought that she was fast asleep, mud the only wall!

But she was dead with sorrow.

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(Son of Gabriel; born at London in 1828; educated at King's College. His love of art led him to found, in connection with Holman Hunt, Millais, and others, what is known as the “ PreRaphaelite, school of painting; is widely known through his designs for illustrated works. His Early Italian Poets, a volume of translations, appeared in 1861. Dante and his Circle, in 1874, a revised edition of the preceding; and a volume of Poems in 1870. As a poet he is associated with that school of latter-day singers of which Morris and Swinburne are also notable members. Died April 9, 1882.] THE SEA-LIMITS.

Gather a shell from the strown beach CONSIDER the sea's listless chime :

And listen at its lips: they sigh Time's self it is, made audible,

The same desire and mystery, The murmur of the earth's own shell.

The echo of the whole sea's speech. Secret continuance sublime

And all mankind is thus at heart Is the sea's end: our sight may pass

Not anything but what thou art : No furlong further.

Since time was,

And Earth, Sea, Man, are all in each.
This sound hath told the lapse of time.
No quiet, which is death's, — it hath

The mournfulness of ancient life,
Enduring always at dull strife.

MARY MAGDALENE
As the world's heart of rest and wrath,

Its painful pulse is in the sands.
Last utterly, the whole sky stands,

“ WHY wilt thou cast the roses from Gray and not known, along its path.

thine hair?

Nay, be thou all a rose, — wreath, Listen alone beside the sea,

lips, and cheek. Listen alone among the woods;

Nay, not this house, that banque“. Those voices of twin solitudes

house we seek; Shall have one sound alike to thee: See how they kiss and enter; come Hark where the murmurs of thronged

thou there. men

This delicate day of love we two will Surge and sink back and surge share again,

Till at our ear love's whispering night Still the one voice of wave and tree.

shall speak.

AT THE DOOR OF SIMON THE PHARISEE.

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