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Ghostly mother, keep aloof

One hour longer from my soul,
For I still am thinking of

Earth's warm-beating joy and dole !
On my finger is a ring
Which I still see glittering,

When the night hides everything. Little sister, thou art pale !

Ah, I have a wandering brain ;
But I lose that fever-bale,

And my thoughts grow calm again.
Lean down closer, closer still !
I have words thine ear to fill,
And would kiss thee at my will.

Yes, and he too! let him stand

In thy thoughts, untouched by blame. Could he help it, if my hand

He had claimed with hasty claim !
That was wrong perhaps, but then
Such things be and will, again !

Women cannot judge for men.
Had he seen thee, when he swore

He would love but me alone ?
Thou wert absent, — sent before

To our kin in Sidmouth town.
When he saw thee, who art best
Past compare, and loveliest,

He but judged thee as the rest. Could we blame him with grave words,

Thou and I, dear, if we might? Thy brown eyes have looks like birds

Flying straightway to the light; Mine are older. - Hush! -- look out Up the street ! Is none without ? How the poplar swings about !

Dear, I heard thee in the spring,

Thee and Robert, through the trees, When we all went gathering

Boughs of May-bloom for the bees.
Do not start so ! think instead
How the sunshine overhead
Seemed to trickle through the shade.

What a day it was, that day !

Hills and vales did openly Seem to heave and throb away,

I like May-bloom on thorn-tree, Thou like merry summer-bee ! Fit, that I be plucked for thee.

And that hour - beneath the beach

When I listened in a dream,
And he said, in his deep speech,

That he owed me all esteem
Each word swam in on my brain
With a dim, dilating pain,
Till it burst with that last strain.

Yet who plucks me ? no one mourns ;

I have lived my season out,
And now die of my own thorns,

Which I could not live without.
Sweet, be merry! How the light
Comes and goes! If it be night,
Keep the candles in my sight.

I fell flooded with a dark,

In the silence of a swoon ;
When I rose, still, cold, and stark,

There was night, I saw the moon;
And the stars, each in its place,
And the May-blooms on the grass,
Seemed to wonder what I was.

Are there footsteps at the door ?

Look out quickly. Yea, or nay? Some one might be waiting for

Some last word that I might say.
Nay? So best ! So angels would
Stand off clear from deathly road,
Not to cross the sight of God.

And I walked as if apart

From myself when I could stand, And I pitied my own heart,

As if I held it in my hand
Somewhat coldly, with a sense
Of fulfilled benevolence,
And a “ Poor thing" negligence.

And I answered coldly too,

When you met me at the door ;
And I only heard the dew

Dripping from me to the floor;
And the flowers I bade you see
Were too withered for the bee,

As my life, henceforth, for me.
Do not weep so — -dear-heart-warm !

It was best as it befell !
If I say he did me harm,

I speak wild, — I am not well.
All his words were kind and good, -
He esteemed me! Only blood
Runs so faint in womanhood.

Colder grow my hands and feet,

When I wear the shroud I made, Let the folds lie straight and neat,

And the rosemary be spread,
That if any friend should come,
(To see thee, sweet !) all the room

May be lifted out of gloom.
And, dear Bertha, let me keep

On my hand this little ring, Which at nights, when others sleep,

I can still see glittering.
Let me wear it out of sight,
In the grave, — where it will light
All the dark up, day and night.

On that grave drop not a tear !

Else, though fathom-deep the place, Through the woollen shroud I wear

I shall feel it on my face.
Rather smile there, blessed one,
Thinking of me in the sun,
Or forget me, smiling on !

the eyes,

Then I always was too grave,

Liked the saddest ballads sung,
With that look, besides, we have

In our faces who die young.
I had died, dear, all the same,
Life's long, joyous, jostling game

Is too loud for my meek shame.
We are so unlike each other,

Thou and I, that none could guess We were children of one mother,

But for mutual tenderness.
Thou art rose-lined from the cold,
And meant, verily, to hold

Life's pure pleasures manifold.
I am pale as crocus grows

Close beside a rose-tree's root ! Whosoe'er would reach the rose,

Treads the crocus underfoot ;

Art thou near me ? nearer ? so !
Kiss me close

upon
That the earthly light may go

Sweetly as it used to rise,
When I watched the morning gray
Strike, betwixt the hills, the way
He was sure to come that day.

So - no more vain words be said !

The hosannas nearer roll -
Mother, smile now on thy dead,

I am death-strong in my soul !
Mystic Dove alit on cross,
Guide the poor bird of the snows
Through the snow-wind above loss!

Jesus, victim, comprehending

As a peculiar darling! Lo, the flies
Love's divine self-abnegation,

Hum o'er him! Lo, a feather from the crow Cleanse my love in its self-spending, Falls in his parted lips! Lo, his dead eyes And absorb the poor libation !

See not the raven! Lo, the worm, the worin
Wind my thread of life up higher, Creeps from his festering corse! My God ! my
Up through angels' hands of fire ! -

God!
I aspire while I expire ! -
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. O Lord, Thou doest well. I am content.

If Thou have need of him he shall not stay.
But as one calleth to a servant, saying

“At such a time be with me," so, O Lord,
HOMESICK.

Call him to Thee! O, bid him not in haste Come to me, O my Mother ! come to me,

Straight whence he standeth. Let him lay aside Thine own son slowly dying far away!

The soiléd tools of labor. Let him wash Through the moist ways of the wide ocean, blown His hands of blood. Let him array himself By great invisible winds, come stately ships

Meet for his Lord, pure from the sweat and fume To this calm bay for quiet anchorage ;

Of corporal travail ! Lord, if he must die, They come, they rest awhile, they go away,

Let him die here. O, take him where Thou gavest ! But, O my Mother, never comest thou ! And even as once I held him in my womb The snow is round thy dwelling, the white snow, Till all things were fulfilled, and he came forth, That cold soft revelation pure as light,

So, O Lord, let me hold him in my grave And the pine-spire is mystically fringed, Till the time come, and Thou, who settest when Laced with incrusted silver. Here — ah me! The hinds shall calve, ordain a better birth; The winter is decrepit, underborn,

And as I looked and saw my son, and wept A leper with no power but his disease.

For joy, I look again and see my son, Why am I from thee, Mother, far from thee?

And weep again for joy of him and Thee ! Far from the frost enchantment, and the woods

SIDNEY DOBELL Jewelled from bough to bough? O home, my

home! O river in the valley of my home,

THE FAREWELL
With mazy-winding motion intricate,
Twisting thy deathless music underneath OF A VIRGINIA SLAVE MOTHER TO HER DAUGHTERS SOLD

INTO SOUTHERN BONDAGE.
The polished ice-work, - must I nevermore
Behold thee with familiar eyes, and watch

GONE, gone, — sold and gone,
Thy beauty changing with the changeful day,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
Thy beauty constant to the constant change? Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings,

Where the noisome insect stings,
Where the fever demon strews

Poison with the falling dews,
THE ABSENT SOLDIER SON.

Where the sickly sunbeams glare

Through the hot and misty air, –
THE ROMAN."

Gone, gone, — sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone, LORD, I am weeping. As Thou wilt, O Lord,

From Virginia's hill and waters,
Do with him as Thou wilt; but O my God,

Woe is me, my stolen daughters !
Let him come back to die! Let not the fowls
O' the air defile the body of my child,

Gone, gone, – sold and gone,
My own fair child, that when he was a babe,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone. I lift up in my arms and gave to Thee !

There no mother's eye is near them,
Let not his garment, Lord, be vilely parted,

There no mother's ear can hear them ;
Nor the fine linen which these hands have spun Never, when the torturing lash
Fall to the stranger's lot! Shall the wild bird, Seams their back with many a gash,
That would have pilfered of the ox, this year Shall a mother's kindness bless them,
Disdain the pens and stalls ? Shall her blind Or a mother's arms caress them.
young,

Gone, gone, - sold and gone,
That on the fleck and moult of brutish beasts

To the rice-swamp dank and lone, Had been too happy, sleep in cloth of gold

From Virginia's hills and waters, Whereof each thread is to this beating heart

Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

DAVID GRAY.

FROM

Gone, gone, - sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
0, when weary, sad, and slow,
From the fields at night they go,
Faint with toil, and racked with pain,
To their cheerless homes again,
There no brother's voice shall greet them,-
There no father's welcome meet them.

Gone, gone, — sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,
Woe is me, my stolen daughters !

Gone, gone, - sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
Toiling through the weary day,
And at night the spoiler's prey.
O that they had earlier died,
Sleeping calmly, side by side,
Where the tyrant's power is o'er,
And the fetter galls no more !
Gone, gone,

sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,
Woe is me, my stolen daughters !
Gone, gone, — sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
By the holy love He beareth,
By the bruised reed He spareth,
O, may He, to whom alone
All their cruel wrongs are known,
Still their hope and refuge prove,
With a more than mother's love.

Gone, gone, - sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters, -
Woe is me, my stolen daughters !

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

Gone, gone, - sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From the tree whose shadow lay
On their childhood's place of play,
From the cool spring where they drank,
Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank,
From the solemn house of prayer,
And the holy counsels there,

Gone, gone, — sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,
Woe is me, my stolen daughters !

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O My Luve's like a red, red rose

That's newly sprung in June : O my Luve 's like the melodie

That's sweetly played in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in luve am I: And I will luve thee still, my dear,

Till a' the seas gang dry : Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear,

And the rocks melt wi' the sun; I will luve thoe still, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only Luve !

And fare thee weel awhile ! And I will come again, my Luve,

Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

ROBERT BURNS.

THE KISS, DEAR MAID.

The kiss, dear maid ! thy lip has left

Shall never part from mine, Till happier hours restore the gift

Untainted back to thine.

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams,

An equal love may see : The tear that from thine eyelid streams

Can weep no change in me.

I ask no pledge to make me blest

In gazing when alone;
Nor one memorial for a breast

Whose thoughts are all thine own.

Nor need I write — to tell the tale

My pen were doubly weak : 0, what can idle words avail,

Unless the heart could speak ?

By day or night, in weal or woe,

That heart, no longer free,
Must bear the love it cannot show,

And silent, ache for thee.

BYBOX

MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART.

Ζώη μου σας αγαπώ. *
Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, O give me back my heart !
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest !
Hear my vow before I go,

Ζώη μου σάς αγαπώ .

By those tresses unconfined,
Wooed by each Ægean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ;
By those wild eyes like the roe,

Ζώη μου σας αγαπώ. .

By that lip I long to taste ;
By that zone-encircled waist ;
By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well ;
By love's alternate joy and woe,

Ζώη μου σάς αγαπώ .

Maid of Athens ! I am gone.
Think of me, sweet! when alone.
Though I fly to Istambol,
Athens holds my heart and soul :
Can I cease to love thee? No!

Ζώη μου σας αγαπώ. .

BYROX.

THE HEATH

THIS NIGHT MUST BE
MY BED.

SONG OF THE YOUNG HIGHLANDER SUMMONED FROM
THE SIDE OF HIS BRIDE BY THB FIERY

CROSS OF RODERICK DHU.

The heath this night must be my bed,
The bracken curtain for my head,
My lullaby the warder's tread,

Far, far from love and thee, Mary ;
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid
My couch may be my bloody plaid,
My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid !

It will not waken me, Mary !

I may not, dare not, fancy now
The grief that clouds thy lovely brow,

* My life, I love thee.

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