Love-learned she had sung of love and love,---
And like a child that, sleeping with dropt head
Upon the fairy-book he lately read,
Whatever household noises round him move,
Hears in his dream some elfin turbulence,-
Even so suggestive to her inward sense,
All sounds of life assumed one tune of love.

And when the glory of her dream withdrew,
When knightly gestes and courtly pageantries
Were broken in her visionary eyes

By tears the solemn seas attested true,—
Forgetting that sweet lute beside her hand,
She asked not," Do you praise me, O my land?"
But,—“ Think ye of me, friends, as I of you?”

Hers was the hand that played for many a year
Love's silver phrase for England, smooth and well.
Would God, her heart's more in ward oracle
In that lone moment might confirm her dear!
For when her questioned friends in agony
Made passionate response, "We think of thee,"
Her place was in the dust, too deep to hear.

Could she not wait to catch their answering breath?
Was she content, content with ocean's sound
Which dashed its mocking infinite around
One thirsty for a little love?-beneath
Those stars content, where last her song had
They mute and cold in radiant life, as soon
Their singer was to be, in darksome death?1

gone,

Bring your vain answers-cry, "We think of thee!" How think ye of her, warm in long ago

Delights? or crowned with budding bays? Not so. None smile and none are crowned where lieth she,

1 Her lyric on the polar star came home with her latest papers.

With all her visions unfulfilled save one,
Her childhood's, of the palm-trees in the sun-
And lo! their shadow on her sepulchre !

“Do you think of me as I think of you?”—
O friends, O kindred, O dear brotherhood
Of all the world! what are we that we should
For covenants of long affection sue?

Why press so near each other when the touch

Is barred by graves? Not much, and yet too much
Is this "Think of me as I think of you."

But while on mortal lips I shape anew
A sigh to mortal issues, verily
Above the unshaken stars that see us die,
A vocal pathos rolls; and HE who drew
All life from dust, and for all tasted death,
By death and life and love, appealing saith,
Do you think of me as I think of you?

THE ROMAUNT OF MARGRET.

Can my affections find out nothing best,

But still and still remove?

I PLANT a tree whose leaf

The yew-tree leaf will suit.

QUARLES.

But when its shade is o'er you laid,

Turn round and pluck the fruit. Now reach my harp from off the wall Where shines the sun aslant; The sun may shine and we be cold!

O harken, loving hearts and bold,

Unto my wild romaunt,

Margret, Margret.

Sitteth the fair ladye

Close to the river side

Which runneth on with a merry tone
Her merry thoughts to guide:
It runneth through the trees,
It runneth by the hill,

Nathless the lady's thoughts have found

A way more pleasant still.

The night is in her hair

Margret, Margret.

And giveth shade to shade,

And the pale moonlight on her forehead white
Like a spirit's hand is laid;
Her lips part with a smile
Instead of speakings done :

I ween, she thinketh of a voice,
Albeit uttering none.

All little birds do sit

Margret, Margret.

With heads beneath their wings : Nature doth seem in a mystic dream, Absorbed from her living things; That dream by that ladye

Is certes unpartook,

For she looketh to the high cold stars

With a tender human look.

The lady's shadow lies

Margret, Margret.

Upon the running river;

It lieth no less in its quietness,

For that which resteth never :

Most like a trusting heart

Upon a passing faith,

Or as upon the course of life

The steadfast doom of death.

Margret, Margret.

The lady doth not move,

The lady doth not dream,

Yet she seeth her shade no longer laid

In rest upon the stream:

It shaketh without wind,

It parteth from the tide,

It standeth upright in the cleft moonlight,

It sitteth at her side.

Look in its face, ladye,

Margret, Margret.

And keep thee from thy swound;
With a spirit bold thy pulses hold
And hear its voice's sound :
For so will sound thy voice

When thy face is to the wall,

And such will be thy face, ladye,

When the maidens work thy pall.

Margret, Margret.

"Am I not like to thee?"

The voice was calm and low,

And between each word you might have heard

The silent forests grow;

"The like may sway the like;

By which mysterious law

Mine eyes from thine and my lips from thine

66

The light and breath may draw.

Margret, Margret.

My lips do need thy breath,

My lips do need thy smile,

And my pallid eyne, that light in thine

Which met the stars erewhile :

Yet go with light and life

If that thou lovest one

In all the earth who loveth thee

As truly as the sun,

Margret, Margret.'

Her cheek had waxed white

Like cloud at fall of snow;
Then like to one at set of sun,
It waxed red alsò;

For love's name maketh bold
As if the loved were near :

And then she sighed the deep long sigh
Which cometh after fear.

Margret, Margret.

"Now, sooth, I fear thee not—

Shall never fear thee now !" (And a noble sight was the sudden light Which lit her lifted brow.)

"Can earth be dry of streams,

Or hearts of love?" she said;

"Who doubteth love, can know not love : He is already dead."

Margret, Margret.

"I have” . . . and here her lips Some word in pause did keep, And gave the while a quiet smile As if they paused in sleep,

"I fed his grey goshawk,

I kissed his fierce bloodhound,

I sate at home when he might come
And caught his horn's far sound:

I sang him hunter's songs,

I poured him the red wine,

He looked across the cup, and said,

I love thee, sister mine.”

Margret, Margret.