The late, close blades still waved

around;

I clutched a handful from the ground.
"He mocks us cruelly," I said:
"The frail herb lives and she is
dead."

I lay dumb, sightless, deaf as she;
The long slow hours passed over me,
I saw Grief face to face; I know
The very form and traits of Woe.
I drained the galled dregs of the
draught

She offered me: I could have laughed
In irony of sheer despair,
Although I could not weep. The air
Thickened with twilight shadows
dim:

I rose and left. I knew each limb
Of these great trees, each gnarled,
rough root
Piercing the clay, each cone of fruit
They bear in autumn.

What blooms here,
Filling the honeyed atmosphere
With faint, delicious fragrancies,
Freighted with blessed memories ?
The earliest March violet,
Dear as the image of Regret,
And beautiful as Hope. Again
Past visions thrill and haunt my
brain,

Through tears I see the nodding head, The purple and the green dispread. Here, where I nursed despair that

morn,

The promise of fresh joy is born,
Arrayed in sober colors still,
But piercing the gray mould to fill
With vague sweet influence the air,
To lift the heart's dead weight of

care.

Longings and golden dreams to bring With joyous phantasies of spring.

REMEMBER.

REMEMBER Him, 'the only One,
Now, ere the years flow by,
Now, while the smile is on thy lip,
The light within thine eye.
Now, ere for thee the sun have lost
Its glory and its light,
And earth rejoice thee not with
flowers,

Nor with the stars the night.
Now, while thou lovest earth, be

cause

She is so wondrous fair
With daisies and with primroses,
And sunlit, waving air;

And not because her bosom holds
Thy dearest and thy best,
And some day will thyself infold
In calm and peaceful rest.
Now, while thou lovest violets,
Because mid grass they wave,
And not because they bloom upon
Some early-shapen grave.
Now, while thou lovest trembling
stars,

But just because they shine,
And not because they're nearer one
Who never can be thine.

Now, while thou lovest music's strains,

Because they cheer thy heart, And not because from aching eyes They make the tear-drops start. Now, whilst thou lovest all on earth And deemest all will last, Before thy hope is vanished quite, And every joy has past; Remember Him, the only One,

Before the days draw nigh When thou shalt have no joy in them,

And praying, yearn to die.

MINE OWN.

AND oh, the longing, burning eyes!
And oh, the gleaming hair
Which waves around me, night and
day,

O'er chamber, hall, and stair!

And oh, the step, half-dreamt, half heard!

And oh, the laughter low!
And memories of merriment
Which faded long ago!

Oh, art thou Sylph,- or truly Self,—
Or either at thy choice?
Oh, speak in breeze or beating heart,
But let me hear thy voice!

"Oh, some do call me Laughter, love;

And some do call me Sin:" “And they may call thee what they will,

So I thy love may win."

"And some do call me Wantonness, And some do call me Play:"

THE CUCKOO.

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!

Thou messenger of spring! Now heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome sing.

Soon as the daisy decks the green,

Thy certain voice we hear. Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee

I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet From birds among the bowers.

The schoolboy, wandering through the wood

To pull the primrose gay,
Starts thy most curious voice to hear,
And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fliest thy vocal vale,
An annual guest in other lands,
Another spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year!

Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Attendants on the spring.

said,

That of our vices we can frame A ladder, if we will but tread

That have their root in thoughts of

ill:

shame!

All common things, each day's events,

That with the hour begin and end, Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend.

The low desire, the base design, That makes another's virtues less: The revel of the ruddy wine,

And all occasions of excess:

The longing for ignoble things: The strife for triumph more than truth;

The hardening of the heart, that brings

Irreverence for the dreams of youth;

down Beneath our feet, if we would gain In the bright fields of fair renown The right of eminent domain.

We have not wings, we cannot soar; But we have feet to scale and climb By slow degrees, by more and more, The cloudy summits of our time.

The mighty pyramids of stone

That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,

When nearer seen, and better known, Are but gigantic flights of stairs.

The distant mountains, that uprear Their solid bastions to the skies, Are crossed by pathways, that appear As we to higher levels rise.