We look into each other's eyes,

'And how long will you love us?' The eyes grow dim with prophecy, The voices, low and breathless,— 'Till death us part!'-O words, to be Our best, for love the deathless!

Be pitiful, O God!

IX.

We tremble by the harmless bed
Of one loved and departed:
Our tears drop on the lips that said
Last night, Be stronger-hearted!'
O God, to clasp those fingers close,
And yet to feel so lonely!

To see a light upon such brows,
Which is the daylight only!

X.

Be pitiful, O God!

The happy children come to us,

And look up in our faces;

They ask us-'Was it thus, and thus,
When we were in their places ?'-

We cannot speak ;-we see anew

The hilis we used to live in,

And feel our mother's smile press through

The kisses she is giving.

Be pitiful, O God!

XI.

We pray together at the kirk
For mercy, mercy solely :
Hands weary with the evil work,
We lift them to the Holy.

The corpse is calm below our knee,
Its spirit, bright before Thee-

Between them, worse than either, we-
Without the rest or glory.

Be pitiful, O God!

XII.

We leave the communing of men,

The murmur of the passions,

And live alone, to live again

With endless generations:

Are we so brave ?—The sea and sky
In silence lift their mirrors,

And, glassed therein, our spirits high

Recoil from their own terrors.

Be pitiful, O God!

XIII.

We sit on hills our childhood wist,

Woods, hamlets, streams, beholding: The sun strikes through the farthest mist The city's spire to golden:

The city's golden spire it was,

When hope and health were strongest,

But now it is the churchyard grass

We look upon the longest.

Be pitiful, O God!

XIV.

And soon all vision waxeth dull;
Men whisper, He is dying;'
We cry no more 'Be pitiful!'

We have no strength for crying:

No strength, no need. Then, soul of mine,

Look up and triumph ratherLo, in the depth of God's Divine,

The Son adjures the Father,

BE PITIFUL, O God!

A PORTRAIT.

'One name is Elizabeth.'-BEN JONSON,

I WILL paint her as I see her.
Ten times have the lilies blown,
Since she looked upon the sun.

And her face is lily-clear,

Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty
To the law of its own beauty.

Oval cheeks encoloured faintly,
Which a trail of golden hair
Keeps from fading off to air:

And a forehead fair and saintly,
Which two blue eyes undershine,
Like meek prayers before a shrine.

Face and figure of a child,—

Though too calm, you think, and tender, For the childhood you would lend her.

Yet child-simple, undefiled,
Frank, obedient, waiting still
On the turnings of your will.

Moving light, as all young things,
As young birds, or early wheat
When the wind blows over it.

Only, free from flutterings.

Of loud mirth that scorneth measure
Taking love for her chief pleasure.

Choosing pleasures, for the rest,
Which come softly-just as she,
When she nestles at your knee.

Quiet talk she liketh best,

In a bower of gentle looks,-
Watering flowers, or reading books.

And her voice, it murmurs lowly,
As a silver stream may run,
Which yet feels, you feel, the sun.

And her smile it seems half holy,
As if drawn from thoughts more far
Than our common jestings are.

And if any poet knew her,

He would sing of her with falls
Used in lovely madrigals.