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Till each quick breath end in a sigh

Of happy languor. Now, alone,

We lean upon this graveyard stone, Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I. Tired out we are, my heart and I.

Suppose the world brought diadems

To tempt us, crusted with loose gems Of powers and pleasures ? Let it try.

We scarcely care to look at even

A pretty child, or God's blue heaven,
We feel so tired, my heart and I.
Yet who complains ? My heart and I?

In this abundant earth no doubt

Is little room for things worn out : Disdain them, break them, throw them by !

And if before the days grew rough

We once were loved, used, -well enough, I think, we've fared, my heart and I.


What's the best thing in the world ?
Junc-rose, by May-dew impearled ;
Sweet south-wind, that means no rain;
Truth, not cruel to a friend ;
Pleasure, not in haste to end ;
Beauty, not self-decked and curled
Till its pride is over-plain ;
Light, that never makes you wink;
Memory, that gives no pain;
Love, when, so, you ’re loved again.
What 's the best thing in the world ?
-Something out of it, I think.

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WHAT shall we add now ? He is dead.
And I who praise and you who blame,

With wash of words across his name,
Find suddenly declared instead-
On Sunday, third of August, dead.
Which stops the whole we talked to-day.

I, quickened to a plausive glance

At his large general tolerance
By common people's narrow way,
Stopped short in praising. Dead, they say.
And you, who had just put in a sort

Of cold deduction—"rather, large
Through weakness of the continent

Than greatness of the thing contained ”-
Broke off. Dead !—there, you stood restrained.
As if we had talked in following one
Up some long gallery. “Would


choose An air like that? The gait is looseOr noble.” Sudden in the sun An oubliette winks. Where is he? Gone.

Dead Man's “I was” by God's “ I am".

All hero-worship comes to that.

High heart, high thought, high fame, as flat
As a gravestone. Bring your Facet jam-
The epitaph 's an epigram.
Dead. There's an answer to arrest

All carping. Dust 's his natural place ?

He 'll let the flies buzz round his face And, though you slander, not protest? -From such an one, exact the Best ?


Opinions gold or brass are null.

We chuck our flattery or abuse,

Called Cæsar's due, as Charon's dues,
l' the teeth of some dead sage or fool,
To mend the grinning of a skull.
Be abstinent in praise or blame.

The man 's still mortal, who stands first,

And mortal only, if last and worst.
Then slowly lift so frail a fame,
Or softly drop so poor a shame.


FRIENDS, of faces unknown and a land

Unvisited over the sea,
Who tell me how lonely you stand
With a single gold curl in the hand

Held up to be looked at by me,-


ask me to ponder and say What a father and mother can do, With the bright fellow-locks put away Out of reach, beyond kiss, in the clay

Where the violets press nearer than you.
Shall I speak like a poet, or run

Into weak woman's tears for relief?
Oh, children !-I never lost one,-
Yet my arm 's round my own little son,

And Love knows the secret of Grief.

And I feel what it must be and is,

When God draws a new angel so Through the house of a man up to His, With a murmur of music, you miss,

And a rapture of light, you forego.

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How you think, staring on at the door,

Where the face of your angel flashed in,
That its brightness, familiar before,
Burns off from you ever the more

For the dark of your sorrow and sin.

« God lent him and takes him," you sigh

- Nay, there let me break with your pain : God's generous in giving, say 1,And the thing which He gives, I deny

That He ever can take back again.

He gives what He gives. I appeal

To all who bear babes—in the hour When the veil of the body we feel Rent round us,-while torments reveal

The motherhood's advent in power,

And the babe cries !-has each of us known

By apocalypse (God being there
Full in nature) the child is our own,
Life of life, love of love, moan of moan.

Through all changes, all times, everywhere.

He's ours and for ever. Believe,

O father !-O mother, look back
To the first love's assurance. To give
Means with God not to tempt or deceive

With a cup thrust in Benjamin's sack.

He gives what He gives. Be content!

He resumes nothing given,-be sure !
God lend ? Where the usurers lent
In His temple, indignant He went

And scourged away all those impure.

He lends not; but gives to the end,

As He loves to the end. If it seem

That He draws back a gift, comprehend 'T is to add to it rather,- amend,

And finish it up to your dream,

Or keep,-as a mother will toys

Too costly, though given by herself, Till the room shall be stiller from noise, And the children more fit for such joys,

Kept over their heads on the shelf.

So look up, friends, you, who indeed

Have possessed in your house a sweet piece Of the Heaven which men strive for, must need Be more earnest than others are,-speed

Where they loiter, persist where they cease.

You know how one angel smiles there.

Then weep not. 'T is easy for you
To be drawn by a single gold hair
Of that curl, from earth's storm and despair,

To the safe place above us. Adieu.


A. A. E. C.

Born, JULY 1848. DIED, NOVEMBER 1849.

OF English blood, of Tuscan birth,

What country should we give her?
Instead of any on the earth,

The civic Heavens receive her.

And here among the English tombs

In Tuscan ground we lay her,
While the blue Tuscan sky endomes

Our English words of prayer.

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