Breathe thy balm upon the lonely,
Gentle Sleep!

As the twilight breezes bless
With sweet scents the wilderness,
Ah, let warm white dove-wings only
Round them sweep!

O'er the agèd pour thy blessing,
Holy Sleep!

Like a soft and ripening rain
Falling on the yellow grain,
For the glare of suns oppressing,
Pitying weep!

O'er thy still seas met together,
Charmed Sleep!

Hear them swell a drowsy hymning,
Swans to silvery music swimming,
Floating with unruffled feather
O'er the deep!

MORTIMER COLLINS.

1827-1876.

SNOW AND SUN.

Fast falls the snow, O Lady mine! Sprinkling the lawn with crystals fine : But, by the Gods, we won't repine, While we're together;

We'll chat and rhyme and kiss and dine. Defying weather.

So stir the fire, and pour the wine!
And let those sea-green eyes divine
Pour their love-madness into mine!
I don't care whether

'Tis snow or sun or rain or shine,
If we're together.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

1828

THE TOUCHSTONE.

A man there came, whence none could tell,
Bearing a Touchstone in his hand;

And tested all things in the land
By its unerring spell.

Quick birth of transformation smote
The fair to foul, the foul to fair;
Purple nor ermine did he spare,
Nor scorn the dusty coat.

Of heirloom jewels, prized so much,
Were many changed to chips and clods;
And even statues of the Gods

Crumbled beneath its touch.

Then angrily the people cried-
"The loss outweighs the profit far:
Our goods suffice us as they are,-
We will not have them tried."

And since they could not so avail
To check his unrelenting quest,
They seized him, saying-" Let him test
How real is our jail!"

But though they slew him with the sword,
And in a fire his Touchstone burn'd,
Its doings could not be o'erturn'd,
Its undoings restored.

And when, to stop all future harm,
They strew'd its ashes on the breeze,
They little guess'd each grain of these
Convey'd the perfect charm.

ARTHUR JOSEPH MUNBY.

1828

VIOLET.

She stood where I had used to wait
For her, beneath the gaunt old yew,
And near a column of the gate
That open'd on the avenue.

The moss that capp'd its granite ball,
The grey and yellow lichen stains,
The ivy on the old park wall,

Were glossy with the morning rains.

She stood amid such tearful gloom;
But close behind her, out of reach,
Lay many a mound of orchard bloom,
And trellis'd blossoms of the peach.

Those peaches blooming to the South,
Those orchard blossoms, seem'd to me
Like kisses of her rosy mouth

Revived on trellis and on tree:

Kisses that die not when the thrill
Of joy that answer'd them is mute,

But such as turn to use and fill

The summer of our days with fruit.

And she, impressing half the sole

Of one small foot against the ground,
Stood resting on the yew-tree bole,
A-tiptoe to each sylvan sound.

She, whom I thought so still and shy,
Express'd in every subtle move

Of lifted hand and open eye
The large expectancy of love.

Until, with all her dewy hair
Dissolved into a golden flame
Of sunshine on the sunless air,

She came to meet me as I came.

But in her face no sunshine shone ;
No sunlight, but the sad unrest
Of shade that sinks from zone to zone
When twilight glimmers in the West.

What grief had touch'd her on the nerve?
For grief alone it is that stirs

The full ineffable reserve

Of quiet spirits such as hers.

'Twas this that we had met to part;
That I was going, and that she
Had nothing left but her true heart
Made strong by memories of me.

What wonder then she quite forgot
Her old repression and controul,
And loosed at once, and stinted not,
The tender tumult of her soul?

What wonder that she droop'd and lay
In silence, and at length in tears,
On that which should have been the stay
And comfort of her matron years?

But from her bosom, as she lean'd,
She took a nestled violet,

66

And gave it me : 'because 'twas mean'd

For those who never can forget."

This is the flower! 'tis dry-or wet
With something I may call my own.

Why did I rouse this old regret ?
It irks me, now, to be alone.

Triumphs, indeed! Why, after all,
My life has but a leaden hue :

My heart grows like the heart of Saul,
For hatred, and for madness too.

Why sits that smirking minstrel there?
I hate him and the songs he sings :
They only bring the fond despair
Of inaccessible sweet things.

I will avoid him once for all,

Or slay him in my righteous ire ;—
Alas! my javelin hits the wall,

And spares the minstrel and his lyre.

Yea! and the crown upon my head,

The crown of wealth for which I strove,
Shall fall away ere I be dead

To yon slight boy who sings of love.

Why are we captive, such as I,
Mature in age and strong in will,
To one who harps so plaintively?
I struck at him: why lives he still ?

Why lives he still? Because the ruth

Of those pure days may never die.
He lives because his name is Youth,
Because his harp is Memory.

MARY ANERLEY.

Little Mary Anerley, sitting on the stile!

Why do you blush so red, and why so strangely smile?
Somebody has been with you: somebody, I know,
Left that sunset on your cheek, left you smiling so.

Gentle Mary Anerley, waiting by the wall,

Waiting in the chestnut walk where the snowy blossoms fall!