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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,
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.
THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD.
What's the best thing in the world ?
WHAT shall we add now ? He is dead.
With wash of words across his name,
I, quickened to a plausive glance
At his large general tolerance
Of cold deduction—"rather, large
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
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,
The man 's still mortal, who stands first,
And mortal only, if last and worst.
ONLY A CURL.
Unvisited over the sea,
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.
Into weak woman's tears for relief?
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.
How you think, staring on at the door,
Where the face of your angel flashed in,
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
Through all changes, all times, everywhere.
He's ours and for ever. Believe,
O father !-O mother, look back
With a cup thrust in Benjamin's sack.
He gives what He gives. Be content!
He resumes nothing given,-be sure !
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 the safe place above us. Adieu.
A CHILD'S GRAVE AT FLORENCE.
A. A. E. C.
Born, JULY 1848. DIED, NOVEMBER 1849.
OF English blood, of Tuscan birth,
What country should we give her?
The civic Heavens receive her.
And here among the English tombs
In Tuscan ground we lay her,
Our English words of prayer.