III.

RICHARD CRASHAW.

O it was rare! O it was rare

To smooth the folds of her chestnut hair,
While she murmured some old ballad rhyme,
In the summer eve, which is love's own time,
Her head at rest on my loving breast,
And the sunset dying athwart the west.

O it is sad! O it is sad

To think of the joys that once I had :
To wander lone over land and sea,
And know that she waits no more for me.
This tress of her fair soft chestnut hair
Is all that the cruel grave would spare.

MORTIMER COLLINS.
The Inn of Strange Meetings. (K. Paul.)

I MOURN for thee, sweet sister,

When the wintry hours are here;

But when the days grow long and bright,
And skies are blue and clear
Oh, when the summer's banquet
Among the flowers is spread,
My spirit is most sorrowful

That thou art with the dead.
We laid thee in thy narrow bed

When autumn winds were high— Thy life had taught us how to live, And then we learned to die.

ALICE CAREY.

All night long I talk with the dead,
All day long I think of my dreams.
This deep wound that bleeds and aches,
This long pain, a sleepless pain-
When the Father my spirit takes
I shall feel it no more again.

W. C. BRYANT. Poems. (K. Paul.)

GONE. [EXTRACT.]

WE miss her in the place of prayer,
And by the hearth-fire's light;
We pause beside her door to hear

Once more her sweet "Good-night !"
There seems a shadow on the day,
Her smile no longer cheers;

A dimness on the stars of night,

Like eyes that look through tears. Alone unto our Father's will

One thought hath reconciled;
That He whose love exceedeth ours
Hath taken home His child.

Fold her, O Father! in thine arms,
And let her henceforth be

A messenger of love between
Our human hearts and thee.

J. G. WHITTIER
Poetical Works. (Macmillan.)

A CHAIR is vacant at our hearth,
And toys unused hang on the wall;
No little voice excites our mirth;
No little sports from sorrow call.

And up and down the house I go,
His dear familiar face to greet;
Still seeking, though, in sooth, I know
That I no more that face shall meet.

Oft in the night a well-known cry
Breaks on my scarcely-wakened ear;
And in the dark, unconsciously,
I reach his place-find nothing there.
And from the loved one at my side,
I hear the whispered prayer ascend;
A prayer to GOD her grief to guide—
A prayer for strength until the end.

And she is calm: though oft I see
A large round tear in either eye :
Her sorrow's soothed in love for me,
And trust in GoD: but I, ah, I

Still ask for Time's all-blessed hand
To soothe my bitterness of woe:
I cannot thus my heart command,
Nor with my grief so friendly grow.

J. A. LANGFORD.
The Lamp of Life. (Simpkin.)

SHE is in her grave, and, ah,
The difference to me!

W. WORDSWORTH.

OH that they would not comfort me!
Deep grief cannot be reached;
Wisdom, to cure a broken heart,

Must not be wisdom preached.

Deep grief is better let alone;
Voices to it are swords;

A silent look will soothe it more
Than the tenderness of words.

F. W. FABER.
Hymns. (Richardson.)

TEARS driven back upon the fountain-head, And Sorrow's voice supprest,

Heave, while in quiet sleep repose the dead... Ah! when will they too rest!

W. S. LANDOR. Works. (Chapman and Hall.)

O My lost friends! why were ye once so dear!
And why were ye not fewer, O ye few!
Must winter, spring, and summer, thus return,
Commemorating some one torn away,

Till half the months at last shall take, with me,
Their names from those upon your scatter'd graves!
W. S. LANDOR.

Works. (Chapman and Hall.)

Amy. My heart is shivered as a fallen cup,
And all the golden wine is in the earth.
My heart is stricken, and it cannot heal.
Tho' thou art but a little grave I know,
O little grave, it will bleed into thee
For evermore, and thou wilt not be filled.

SYDNEY DObell.

Balder: Poetical Works, Vol. II. (Smith, Elder, and Co.)

FRIEND of my youth! though younger yet my guide,
How much by thy unerring insight clear

I shaped my way of life for many a year,
What thoughtful friendship on thy deathbed died
Friend of my youth, whilst thou wast by my side
Autumnal days still breathed a vernal breath;
How like a charm thy life to me supplied
All waste and injury of time and tide,
How like a disenchantment was thy death!
SIR HENRY TAYLOR.
A Sicilian Summer. (Smith, Elder, and Co.)

WE garland the urn with white roses,

Burn incense and gums on the shrine, Play old tunes with the saddest of closes, Dear tunes that were thine!

But in vain, all in vain;

Thou art gone-we remain !

R. H. STODdard.

(From "Deep Grief.")

DEEP grief is not a past event,

It is a life, a state,

Which habit makes more terrible,

And age more desolate.

But am I comfortless? Oh no!
Jesus this pathway trod;
And deeper in my soul than grief

Art Thou, my dearest God!

Good is that darkening of our lives,
Which only God can brighten :
But better still that hopeless load,
Which none but God can lighten.
F. W. FABER.
Hymns. (Richardson.)

NEVER again. Oh, dearest, do you know All the long mournfulness of such a word? And even you who smile now on my pain May seek some day for love lost long ago, And sigh to the long echo faintly heard, Never again, never again.

AUGUSTA WEBSTER.

wwwwww

ALICE.

CLEAR, truthful eyes, whose sunny radiance made The light of life to those who loved her best ;Though often-times unconsciously a shade

Of wistful pathos filled them when at rest, As if they saw far off, in mist arrayed,

Some vision of the blest;

A pleading childlike mouth, whose curves unbent
Most readily for smiles or girlish glee;
Where never grieving line of discontent
Disturbed the dimples we so loved to see ;
Sweet lips, whose speech seemed dearer as it went,
Than others' song could be;

A nature quick to praise, and slow to blame,
But full of generous impulse for the right;
A heart whose deep affections were the same
For all she loved, in darkness as in light;-
Such was our darling when the shadow came
And hid her from our sight.

Lilies of peace bloomed on her upward path,
The rose of love unfolded where she trod;
And all of brightness that existence hath

Seemed purposed for her in the thoughts of God, Springtime of bloom, and lingering aftermath Upon the autumn sod!

Alas, we knew not! chilling mists arose

And touched our dear one ere the noontide heat; In wondering dread we saw the blossoms close, The meek pale lilies droop beside her feet; While she went calmly on, the last of foes Unfalteringly to meet.

Her pathway narrowed to that darkened vale Within whose shade the most fine gold is dim; But she could hear already, through the veil,

The thrilling chant of sweet-voiced seraphim; For One was there whose guidance could not fail, And she was safe with Him.

The shadows we so dreaded for her sake,
Were but soft outlines as of angels' wings;
She did not see the moaning river break

In troubled eddies, where the amaranth clings;
For with a smile she fell asleep, to wake
Amid eternal things.

But oh, for us, between this darkened now

And all the golden past that went before, There lies, unchanged by stormy ebb and flow, An aching sea of silence evermore ; Where freighted ships of memory come and go, But never reach the shore!

At times the yearning of our dreams is crossed
By some brief glimpse of her, serene and strong,
And then our love, so lately sorrow-tossed,

In happy chiding that implies no wrong,
Can only murmur, "Oh, beloved and lost,
Where have you been so long?

"From the far outlook of the heavenly hil What have you learned of mysteries sublime? Hath the bright spirit opened to fulfil

Its earthly promise in celestial prime? 'Mid speech of angels, do you cherish still The songs of olden time?"

Oh, child of peace, with tender, earnest eyes,
Watch for us still amid the glories vast;
Stronger than death or sorrow love shall rise
Rejoicing in your journey overpast,
Our night is waning, and beyond the skies,
The morning comes at last! MARY ROWLES.

YOUR life lies out before you like a field Wherein you have but paced a little way;

What matter if you stumbled? Stand upright,
Pass by the grave where you have wept enough,
Pass it, and leave your tender thoughts upon it,
Your faithful memories, your gracious flowers;
But not your hopes, but not your living self!
Go on to better joys.

M. B. SMEDLEY.

Lady Grace, Act II., Sc. 5-Poems. (Strahan.)