And even saints of holy fame, Who wore amid the cruel flame The molten crown of martyrdom, Bore not without complaint alway The petty pains of every day. Ah! more than martyr's aureole, We need the humble strength of soul WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. THE TOUCHSTONE. A MAN there came, whence none could tell, Bearing a touchstone in his hand; Quick birth of transmutation smote 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, 66 Our goods suffice us as they are; We will not have them tried." And since they could not so avail test How real is our jail!" But, though they slew him with the sword, And in a fire his touchstone burned, Its doings could not be o'erturned, Its undoings restored. And when, to stop all future harm, They strewed its ashes on the breeze; They little guessed each grain of these The loss outweighs the profit far; | Conveyed the perfect charm. AUTUMNAL SONNET. Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods, And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, And night by night the monitory blast Wails in the keyhole, telling how it passed Or grim, wide wave; and now the power is felt Poor Earth, where we were wont to live and grieve. TO ROUSE, THE ARTIST. As when in watches of the night we see, Hanging in tremulous beauty o'er the bed, The face we loved on Earth, now from us fled; So wan, so sweet, so spiritually free From taint of Earth, thy tender drawings be. There we may find a friend remembered; With a new aureole hovering round the head, Given by Art's peaceful immortality. How many homes half empty fill the place Death vacates, with thy gracious substitutes! Not sensuous with color, which may disgrace The memory of the body shared with brutes; But the essential spirit in the face; As angels see us, best, Affection suits. EDWIN ARNOLD. SHE AND he. But he who loved her too well to dread "SHE is dead!" they said to him. The sweet, the stately, the beautiful "Come away; Kiss her! and leave her!-thy love is clay!" They smoothed her trosses of dark brown hair; On her forehead of marble they laid it fair: Over her eyes, which gazed too much, They drew the lids with a gentle touch; With a tender touch they closed up well The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell; About her brows, and her dear, pale face They tied her veil and her marriagelace; dead, He lit his lamp, and took the key, And turn'd it! Alone again - he and she! He and she; but she would not speak, Though he kiss'd, in the old place, the quiet cheek; He and she; yet she would not smile, Though he call'd her the name that was fondest erewhile. He and she; and she did not move To any one passionate whisper of love! Then he said, "Cold lips! and breast without breath! Is there no voice? -no language of death "Dumb to the ear and still to the sense, And drew on her white feet her But to heart and to soul distinct, white silk shoes; Which were the whiter no eye could choose! And over her bosom they crossed her hands; intense ? "See, now,—I listen with soul, not ear What was the secret of dying, Dear? "Come away," they said, "God"Was it the infinite wonder of all, say, HE who died at Azan sends Pale and white and cold as snow; Weeping at the feet and head, Sweet friends! What the women lave Of the falcon, not the bars the With the soft rich voice, in the dear Which kept him from these splendid old way: "The utmost wonder is this,-I hear, And see you, and love you, and kiss you, Dear; "I can speak, now you listen with soul alone; If your soul could see, it would all be shown. stars. Loving friends! Be wise and dry Tis an earthen jar, whose lid Allah glorious! Allah good! Farewell, friends! Yet not farewell; Be ye certain all seems love, Thou love divine! Thou love alway! |