mine,

And do not take my tears amiss;
For tears must flow to wash away

A thought that shows so stern as this.

Forgive, if somewhile I forget,
In woe to come, the present bliss,
As frighted Proserpine let fall
Her flowers at the sight of Dis.
E'en so the dark and bright will
kiss;

The sunniest things throw sternest shade;

And there is even a happiness
That makes the heart afraid!
Now let us with a spell invoke
The full-orbed moon to grieve our
eyes;

Not bright, not bright-but with a cloud

Lapped all about her, let her rise
All pale and dim, as if from rest.
The ghost of the late buried sun
Had crept into the skies.
The moon! she is the source
sighs,

of

The very face to make us sad,
If but to think in other times
The same calm, quiet look she had,
As if the world held nothing base,
Or vile and mean, or fierce and

bad

The same fair light that shone in

streams,

The fairy lamp that charmed the lad;

For so it is, with spent delights She taunts men's brains, and makes them mad

holy!

Gaze upon her living eyes,
And mirror back her love for thee,
Hereafter thou may'st shudder sighs
To meet them when they cannot see.
Gaze upon her living eyes!

Press her lips the while they glow
With love that they have often told,
Hereafter thou mayest press in woe,
And kiss them till thine own are cold,

Press her lips the while they glow! Oh, revere her raven hair! Although it be not silver-grayToo early Death, led on by Care, May snatch save one dear lock away. Oh! revere her raven hair!

Pray for her at eve and morn, That Heaven may long the stroke defer,

For thou may'st live the hour forlorn

Pray for her at eve and morn!

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I REMEMBER, I remember
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;

He never came a wink too soon;

Nor brought too long a day;
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember
The roses, red and white,
The violets, and the lily-cups -
Those dowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday, -
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing,

And thought the air must rush as fresh

To swallows on the wing;

My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,

And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember
The fir-trees dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky.
It was a childish ignorance,
But now 't is little joy

To know I'm farther off from heaven
Than when I was a boy.

THE DEATH-BED.

WE watched her breathing through the night

Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak,
So slowly moved about,
As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied -

We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.
WITH fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread·

Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch

She sang the "Song of the Shirt!"

"Work! work! work!

While the cock is crowing aloof! And work-work-work,

Till the stars shine through the roof!

It's oh! to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to

With fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread
Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch

Would that its tone could reach the rich!

She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.
ONE more unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care!
Fashioned so slenderly-
Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements,
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing!

Touch her not scornfully!
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly
Not of the stains of her;
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny,
Rash and undutiful;
Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's family-
Wipe those poor lips of hers,
Oozing so clammily.

Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb-