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Sorrows I've had, severe ones
I will not think of now;
And calmly 'midst my dear ones,
Have wasted with dry brow:
But when thy fingers press,
And pat my stooping head,
I cannot bear the gentleness,-
The tears are in their bed.

Ah! firstborn of thy mother,

When life and hope were new;

Kind playmate of thy brother,
Thy sister, father, too:
My light where'er I go,

My bird when prison bound,—
My hand in hand companion,-no,
My prayers shall hold thee round.

To say, "He has departed,"

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His voice,"—" his face,"-" is gone;"

To feel impatient-hearted,

Yet feel we must bear on :

Ah, I could not endure

To whisper of such wo,

Unless I felt this sleep insure

That it will not be so.

Yes, still he's fix'd, and sleeping!

This silence too the while

Its very hush and creeping

Seem whispering us a smile:— Something divine and dim

Seems going by one's ear,

Like parting wings of cherubim,

Who say,

"We've finished here."

THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS.

KING Francis was a hearty king, and lov'd a royal sport,
And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the court;
The nobles fill'd the benches round, the ladies by their side,
And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for
whom he sigh'd :

And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws;

With wallowing might and stifled roar, they roll'd on one another,

Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thunderous

smother;

The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the

air:

Said Francis, then,

than there."

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Faith, gentlemen, we're better here

De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, lively dame, With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the same;

She thought, The count, my lover, is brave as brave can be

He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of

me:

King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine,—

I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be

mine,

She dropp'd her glove, to prove his love, then look'd at him and smiled;

He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the lions wild: The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain'd the

place,

Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's

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face.

By God!" cried Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat;

"No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that!"

THE FISH, THE MAN, AND THE SPIRIT.

TO FISH.

You strange, astonish'd-looking, angle-faced,
Dreary-mouth'd, gaping wretches of the sea,
Gulping salt water everlastingly,

Cold-blooded, though with red your blood be graced,
And mute though dwellers in the roaring waste;
And you, all shapes beside, that fishy be,-
Some round, some flat, some long, all devilry,
Legless, unloving, in famously chaste;

O scaly, slippery, wet, swift, staring wights,
What is't ye do? What life lead? eh, dull goggles?
How do ye vary your vile days and nights?

How pass your Sundays? Are ye still but joggles
In ceaseless wash? Still nought but gapes, and bites,
And drinks, and stares, diversified with boggles?

A FISH ANSWERS.

Amazing monster! that, for aught I know,
With the first sight of thee didst make our race
For ever stare! O flat and shocking face,
Grimly divided from the breast below!
Thou, that on dry land horribly dost go

With a split body, and most ridiculous pace
Prong after prong, disgracer of all grace,
Long-useless-finn'd, hair'd, upright, unwet, slow!

O breather of unbreathable, sword-sharp air,
How canst exist! How bear thyself, thou dry
And dreary sloth? What particle canst share
Of the only blessed life, the watery?
I sometimes see of ye an actual pair

Go by! link'd fin by fin! most odiously.

THE FISH TURNS INTO A MAN, AND THEN INTO A SPIRIT, AND AGAIN SPEAKS.

Indulge thy smiling scorn, if smiling still,

O man! and loathe, but with a sort of love;
For difference must itself by difference prove,
And, with sweet clang, the spheres with music fill,
One of the spirits am I, that at their will

Live in whate'er has life—fish, eagle, dove—
No hate, no pride, beneath nought, nor above,
A visiter of the rounds of God's sweet skill.

Man's life is warm, glad, sad, 'twixt loves and graves,
Boundless in hope, honour'd with pangs austere,
Heaven-gazing; and his angel-wings he craves :—
The fish is swift, small-needing, vague yet clear,
A cold sweet silver life, wrapp'd in round waves,
Quicken'd with touches o. transporting fear.

ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL.

ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase !)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel, writing in a book of gold;
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold:
And to the presence in the room he said,

"What writest thou?" The vision rais'd its head, And, with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answer'd, "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abou. 66

Nay, not so;"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

The angel wrote and vanish'd. The next night It came again, with a great wakening light,

And show'd the names whom love of God had bless'd, And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

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