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And low on his body she droppeth adown-
She looked in his face earnest-long, as in sooth
God, hear my beseeching !”
She was 'ware of a shadow that crossed where she lay,
I am ready for dying !”
She dashed it in scorn to the marble-paved ground
And moaned in the trying.
ONORA looketh listlessly adown the garden walk :
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
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
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 ;
A silver sound, a hollow sound :
Would leave a bondsman faster bound.
I am no trumpet, but a reed, -
Left flat upon a dismal shore ;
This reed will answer evermore.
I am no trumpet, but a reed;
Their nets along the river's edge,
Then let them leave me in the sedge.
TO FLUSH, MY DOG.
LOVING friend, the gift of one
Through thy lower nature,
Gentle fellow-creature !
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,
That I praise thy rareness ;
And this glossy fairness.
Day and night unweary,