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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 fevered spirit,

With a touch of infinite calm.

It quieted pain and sorrow,
Like love overcoming strife;

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.

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.]

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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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on, glorious,

But march

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GERALD MASSEY.

1828

[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!

O, LAY thy hand in mine, dear!
We're growing old;

But Time hath brought no sign, dear,
That hearts grow cold.

'Tis long, long since our new love

Made life divine;

But age enricheth true love,
Like noble wine.

And lay thy cheek to mine, dear,

And take thy rest;

Mine arms around thee twine, dear,
And make thy nest.

A many cares are pressing

On this dear head;

But Sorrow's hands in blessing
Are surely laid.

O, lean thy life on mine, dear!
'Twill shelter thee.

Thou wert a winsome vine, dear,
On my young tree:

And so, till boughs are leafless,
And songbirds flown,
We'll twine, then lay us, griefless,
Together down.

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 bud 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 about 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 winged hopes might build!
We saw-though none like us might

see

Such precious promise pearled Upon the petals of our wee White Rose of all the world.

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 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 the 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.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

1828-1889.

[BORN at Ballyshannon, in the north-west part of Ireland. After contributing to the Athenaum, 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 the best!

If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest.

Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will,

Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still,

Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock,

How clear they are, how dark they are!

and they give me many a shock. Red rowans warm in sunshine, and wetted with a shower, Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power.

Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up,

Her chin is very neat and pert, and

smooth like a china cup, Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine;

It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine.

The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before;

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

But Mary kept the belt of love, and O, but she was gay!

She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away.

When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete

The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet;

The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised, But blessed himself he wasn't deaf

when once her voice she raised.

And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung,

Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue; But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands, And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands.

O, you're the flower o' womankind in country or in town;

The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down.

If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright, And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right.

O, might we live together in a lofty palace hall,

Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall!

O, might we live together in a cottage mean and small;

With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall!

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They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lakes,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wakes.

By the craggy hillside,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.

Is any man so daring

To dig one up in spite,

He shall find the thornies set
In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,

And white owl's feather!

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.

1828-1882.

[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.]

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