"O!" the rosy lips reply,"I can't tell you if I try :

'Tis so long I can't remember,—
Ask some younger lass than I!"

Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face!
Do your heart and head keep pace?
When does hoary love expire?
When do frosts put out the fire?
Can its embers burn below
All that chill December snow?
Care you still soft hands to press,
Bonny heads to smooth and bless ?
When does Love give up the chase?
Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face!

"Ah!" the wise old lips reply,—
"Youth may pass and strength may die,

But of Love I can't foretoken
Ask some older sage than I."

MINE.

Thou art mine, thou hast given thy word,
Close, close in my arms thou art clinging;
Alone for my ear thou art singing

A song which no stranger hath heard :
But afar from me yet, like a bird,

Thy soul in some region unstirr'd
On its mystical circuit is winging.

Thou art mine, I have made thee mine own,Henceforth we are mingled for ever:

But in vain, all in vain I endeavour,

Though round thee my garlands are thrown And thou yieldest thy lips and thy zone,

To master the spell that alone

My hold on thy being can sever.

Thou art mine, thou hast come unto me:
But thy soul, when I strive to be near it,
The innermost fold of thy spirit,

Is as far from my grasp, is as free,

As the stars from the mountain-tops be,
As the pearl in the depths of the sea
From the portionless king who would wear it.

GEORGE ARNOLD.

1834-1865.

GLORIA.

IN TIME OF WAR.

The laurels shine in the morning sun,
The tall grass shakes its glittering spears,
And the webs the spiders last night spun
Are threaded with pearly tears.

At

peace with the world and all therein,
I walk in the fields this summer morn :
What should I know of sorrow or sin
Among the laurels and corn?

But hark! through the corn a murmur comes,-
'Tis growing, 'tis swelling, it rises high :
The thunder of guns and the roll of drums,
And an army marching by.

Away with the sloth of peace and ease!

'Tis a nation's voice that seems to call : Who cares for aught in times like these Save to win, or else to fall?

Farewell, O shining laurels ! now,

I go with the army marching by :

Your leaves, should I win, may deck my brow,Or my bier, if I should die.

JOHN NICHOL.
1833-

IMPATIENCE.

Our life is spent in little things,

In little cares our hearts are drown'd; We move, with heavy-laden wings, In the same narrow round.

We waste on wars and petty strife,
And squander in a thousand ways,
The fire that should have been the life
And power of after days.

We toil to make an outward show,
And only now and then reveal
How far the under currents flow
Of all we think and feel.

Mining in caves of ancient lore,

Unweaving endless webs of thought, We do what has been done of yore: And so we come to nought.

The Spirit longs for wider scope,
And room to let its fountains play
Ere it has lost its love and hope,
Tamed down or worn away.

I wander by the cloister walls,
My fancy fretting to be free
As, through the twilight, voices call
From mountain and from sea.

Forgive me if I feel oppress'd
By Custom, lord of all and me!
My soul springs upward, seeking rest,
And cries for liberty.

LEWIS MORRIS.

1833

LOVE'S SUICIDE.

Alas for me that my love is dead!

Sunk fathom-deep, and may not rise again :
Self-murder'd, vanish'd, fled beyond recall:
And this is all my pain.

'Tis not that She I loved is gone from me;
She lives, and grows more lovely day by day :
Not Death could kill my love,-but, though She lives,
My love has died away.

Nor was it that a form or face more fair
Forswore my troth, for so my love had proved
Eye-deep alone, not rooted in the soul:

And 'twas not thus I loved.

Nor that, by too long dalliance with delight
And recompense of love, my love had grown
Surfeit with sweets, like some tired bee that flags
'Mid roses overblown.

None of these slew my love; but some cold wind,
Some chill of doubt, some shadowy dissidence,
Born out of too great concord, did o'ercloud
Love's subtle inner sense.

So one sweet changeless chord too long sustain'd
Falls at its close into a lower tone;

So the swift train, sped on the long straight way,
Sways and is overthrown.

For difference is the soul of life and love,

And not the barren oneness weak souls prize :

Rest springs from strife, and dissonant chords beget Divinest harmonies.

Oct. 1.5 18.30

HELEN FISKE JACKSON.

1833-5

CORONATION.

At the king's gate the subtle Noon
Wove filmy yellow nets of sun ;
Into the drowsy snare too soon
The guards fell, one by one.

Through the king's gate unquestion'd then
A beggar went, and laugh’d—“ This brings
Me chance at last to see if men

Fare better, being kings."

The king sat bow'd beneath his crown,
Propping his face with listless hand,
Watching the hour-glass shifting down
Too slow its shining sand.

"Poor man! what wouldst thou have of me?"
The beggar turn'd and, pitying,
Replied, like one in dream-" Of thee
Nothing I want the king."

Uprose the king, and from his head

Shook off the crown and threw it by:
"O man! thou must have known," he said,
"A greater king than I."

Through all the gates unquestion'd then
Went king and beggar, hand in hand :
Whisper'd the king—“ Shall I know when
Before his throne I stand ? "

The beggar laugh'd (free winds in haste
Were wiping from the king's hot brow
The crimson lines the crown had traced):
"This is his presence now!"