Sad is the vague and tender dream
Of dead love's lingering kisses,
To crushed hearts haloed by the
gleam

Of unreturning blisses;

Deep mourns the soul in anguished pride

For the pitiless death that won them,

But the saddest wail is for lips that died

With the virgin dew upon them.

ON THE BLUFF.

O GRANDLY flowing River!
O silver-gliding River!

Thy springing willows shiver
In the sunset as of old;
They shiver in the silence

Of the willow-whitened islands,
While the sun-bars and the sand-bars
Fill air and wave with gold.

O gay, oblivious River!
O sunset-kindled River!
Do you remember ever

The eyes and skies so blue
On a summer day that shone here,
When we were all alone here,
And the blue eyes were too wise
To speak the love they knew?

O stern impassive River!
O still unanswering River!
The shivering willows quiver

As the night-winds moan and rave.
From the past a voice is calling,
From heaven a star is falling,
And dew swells in the bluebells
Above her hillside grave.

A WOMAN'S LOVE.

A SENTINEL angel sitting high in
glory
Heard this shrill wail ring out from
Purgatory:

"Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story!

Child-roisterers winged, and lightly fluttering by

Blow their gay trumpets in the face of care;

And bolder winds, the deep sky's passionate speech,

Woven into rhythmic raptures of desire,

Or fugues of mystic victory, sadly reach

Our humbled souls, to rack, not raise them higher!

The field-birds seem to twit us as they pass

With their small blisses, piped so clear and loud;

The cricket triumphs o'er us in the grass,

And the lark, glancing beamlike up the cloud,

Hint more than all the sages say,
Or poets sing, of death or life!

For, truth half drawn from Nature's breast,

Through subtlest types of form anđ tone, Outweigh what man at most hath guessed,

While heeding his own heart alone.

And midway betwixt heaven and us Stands Nature, in her fadeless grace, Still pointing to our Father's house, His glory on her mystic face!

WINDLESS RAIN.

THE rain, the desolate rain!

Ceaseless, and solemn, and chill! How it drips on the misty pane, How it drenches the darkened sill! O scene of sorrow and dearth!

I would that the wind awaking fo a fierce and gusty birth

Might vary this dull refrain

Of the rain, the desolate rain: For the heart of heaven seems breaking

In tears o'er the fallen earth,
And again, again, again,
We list to the sombre strain,
The faint, cold, monotone ·
Whose soul is a mystic moan
Of the rain, the mournful rain,
The soft, despairing rain!

--

THE STING OF DEATH.

I FEAR thee not, O Death! nay, oft I pine

To clasp thy passionless bosom to mine own,

And on thy heart sob out my latest

moan,

Ere lapped and lost in thy strange sleep divine;

But much I fear lest that chill breath of thine

Should freeze all tender memories into stone,

Lest ruthless and malign Oblivion Quench the last spark that lingers on love's shrine:

O God! to moulder through dark, dateless years,

The while all loving ministries shall cease,

And Time assuage the fondest mourner's tears!

Here lies the sting!-this, this it is to die!

And yet great Nature rounds all strife with peace,

And life or death, each rests in mystery!