ADELAIDE NEILSON1

AND oh, to think the sun can shine,
The birds can sing, the flowers can bloom,
And she, whose soul was all divine,
Be darkly mouldering in the tomb:

That o'er her head the night-wind sighs,
And the sad cypress droops and moans;
That night has veiled her glorious eyes,
And silence hushed her heavenly tones:

That those sweet lips no more can smile,
Nor pity's tender shadows chase,
With many a gentle, child-like wile,

The rippling laughter o'er her face:

That dust is on the burnished gold
That floated round her royal head;
That her great heart is dead and cold-
Her form of fire and beauty dead!

Roll on, gray earth and shining star,
And coldly mock our dreams of bliss;
There is no glory left to mar,

Nor any grief so black as this!

ARTHUR 1 (1872-1886)

I

WHITE sail upon the ocean verge,
Just crimsoned by the setting sun,
Thou hast thy port beyond the surge,

Thy happy homeward course to run,
And winged hope, with heart of fire,
To gain the bliss of thy desire.

I watch thee till the sombre sky

Has darkly veiled the lucent plain; My thoughts, like homeless spirits, fly Behind thee o'er the glimmering main; Thy prow will kiss a golden strand, But they can never come to land.

And if they could, the fanes are black Where once I bent the reverent knee; No shrine would send an answer back,

No sacred altar blaze for me, No holy bell, with silver toll, Declare the ransom of my soul.

'Tis equal darkness, here or there; For nothing that this world can give

The knaves speak not the truth; I see
Sir Walter at the window there.

- That is the hat, the sword, which he In pictures hath been pleased to wear.

There hangs the very cloak whereon
Elizabeth set foot. (But oh,
Young diplomat, as things have gone,
Pity it is she soiled it so !)

And there-but look! he 's lost in smoke:
(That weirdly charmed Virginia weed!)
Make haste, bring anything; his cloak
They save him with a shower, indeed!

-

Ay, lost in smoke. I linger where He walked his garden. Day is dim, And death-sweet scents rise to the air From flowers that gave their breath to him.

There, with its thousand years of tombs, The dark church glimmers where he prayed;

Here, with that high head shorn of plumes, The tree he planted gave him shade.