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And low on his body she droppeth adown-
“Didst call me thine own wife, beloved--thine own?
- Then take thine own with thee! thy coldness is warm
To the world's cold without thee. Come, keep me from

In a calm of thy teaching !”.

She looked in his face earnest-long, as in sooth
There were hope of an answer, and then kissed his

And, with head on his bosom, wept, wept bitterly,
“Now, O God, take pity-take pity on me!

God, hear my beseeching !”

She was 'ware of a shadow that crossed where she lay,
She was 'ware of a presence that withered the day :
Wild she sprang to her feet," I surrender to thee
The broken vow's pledge, the accursed rosary,-

I am ready for dying !”

She dashed it in scorn to the marble-paved ground
Where it fell mute as snow, and a weird music-sound
Crept up, like a chill, up the aisles long and dim, -
As the fiends tried to mock at the choristers' hymn

And moaned in the trying.


ONORA looketh listlessly adown the garden walk :
“I am weary, O my mother, of thy tender talk.
I am weary of the trees a-waving to and fro,
Of the steadfast skies above, the running brooks below.
All things are the same but 1,--only I am dreary,
And, mother, of my dreariness behold me very weary.

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Mother, brother, pull the flowers i planted in the

spring And smiled to think I should smile more upon their

gathering : The bees will find out other flowers-oh, pull them,

dearest mine, And carry them and carry me before St. Agnes' shrine !" -Whereat they pulled the summer flowers she planted

in the spring, And her and them all mournfully to Agnes' shrine did


She looked up to the pictured saint and gently shook her

head“ The picture is too calm for me—too calm for me,"

she said : “ The little flowers we brought with us, before it we may


For those are used to look at heaven,—but I must turn

away, Because no sinner under sun can dare or bear to gaze On God's or angel's holiness, except in Jesu's face.”

She spoke with passion after pause—“And were it wisely

done If we who cannot gaze above, should walk the earth

alone ? If we whose virtue is so weak should have a will so

strong, And stand blind on the rocks to choose the right path

from the wrong?

“ To choose perhaps a lovelit hearth, instead of love and

heaven,A single rose, for a rose-tree which beareth seven times


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A rose that droppeth from the hand, that fadeth in the

breast, Until, in grieving for the worst, we learn what is the

best !” Then breaking into tears,—“Dear God," she cried, “and

must we see All blissful things depart from us or e'er we go to THEE ? We cannot guess Thee in the wood or hear Thee in the

wind ? Our cedars must fall round us

see the light behind ? Ay sooth, we feel too strong, in weal, to need Thee on

that road, But woe being come, the soul is dumb that crieth not

on ‘God.'"



Her mother could not speak for tears; she ever musëd

thus, The bees will find out other flowers,—but what is left

for us?" But her young brother stayed his sobs and knelt beside

her knee, “ Thou sweetest sister in the world, hast never a word

for me?" She passed her hand across his face, she pressed it on his

cheek, So tenderly, so tenderly—she needed not to speak.

The wreath which lay on shrine that day, at vespers

bloomed no more. The woman fair who placed it there, had died an hour

before. Both perished mute for lack of root, earth’s nourishment

to reach. O reader, breathe (the ballad saith) some sweetness out

of each !


I AM no trumpet, but a reed ;
No flattering breath shall from me lead

A silver sound, a hollow sound :
I will not ring, for priest or king,
One blast that in re-echoing

Would leave a bondsman faster bound.

I am no trumpet, but a reed, -
A broken reed, the wind indeed

Left flat upon a dismal shore ;
Yet if a little maid or child
Should sigh within it, earnest-mild

This reed will answer evermore.

I am no trumpet, but a reed;
Go, tell the fishers, as they spread

Their nets along the river's edge,
I will not tear their nets at all,
Nor pierce their hands, if they should fall :

Then let them leave me in the sedge.


LOVING friend, the gift of one
Who her own true faith has run

Through thy lower nature,
Be my benediction said
With my hand upon thy head,

Gentle fellow-creature !

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Leap! thy broad tail waves a light, Leap! thy slender feet are bright,

Canopied in fringes; Leap! those tasselled ears of thine Flicker strangely, fair and fine

Down their golden inches.

Yet, my pretty, sportive friend,
Little is 't to such an end

That I praise thy rareness ;
Other dogs may be thy peers
Haply in these drooping ears

And this glossy fairness.
But of thee it shall be said,
This dog watched beside a bed

Day and night unweary,

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