ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep. O earth, so full of dreary noises! His dews drop mutely on the hill, Ay, men may wonder while they scan For me, my heart, that erst did go And, friends, dear friends, when it shall be That this low breath is gone from me, BERTHA IN THE LANE. PUT the broidery-frame away, Though the clock stands at the noon, Sister, help me to the bed, And stand near me, dearest-sweet! By God's love I go to meet, Love I thee with love complete. 191 I have words thine ear to fill, Dear, I heard thee in the spring, Boughs of May-bloom for the bees. What a day it was, that day! Hills and vales did openly At the sight of the great sky; Through the winding hedge-rows green, And the gates that showed the view; Till the pleasure, grown too strong, I walked out of sight, before; I sat down beneath the beech Which leans over to the lane, But the sound grew into word As the speakers drew more near— Sweet, forgive me that I heard Had he seen thee, when he swore He would love but me alone? Could we blame him with grave words, And that hour- beneath the beech- I fell flooded with a dark, -- In the silence of a swoon: When I rose, still, cold, and stark, There was night, I saw the moon; And the stars, each in its place, And the May-blooms on the grass, Seemed to wonder what I was. And I walked as if apart From myself when I could stand, When you met me at the door; Dripping from me to the floor; Do not weep so→ dear-heart-warm! If I say he did me harm, I speak wild, I am not well. Then I always was too grave, Liked the saddest ballads sung, ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. With that look, besides, we have We are so unlike each other, Thou and I, that none could guess We were children of one mother, But for mutual tenderness. I am pale as crocus grows Close beside a rose-tree's root! Yet who plucks me?- no one mourns; Which I could not live without. Some last word that I might say. Colder grow my hands and feet: When I wear the shroud I made, And, dear Bertha, let me keep On my hand this little ring, Which at nights, when others sleep, I can still see glittering. Let me wear it out of sight, In the grave, where it will light All the dark up, day and night. On that grave drop not a tear! Rather smile there, blessed one, Art thou near me? nearer? so! 193 man, Then drew the pith like the heart of a | And how, when one by one sweet sounds and wandering lights departed, He wore no less a loving face because so broken-hearted; Steadily from the outside ring, "This is the way," laughed the great god Pan, (Laughed while he sate by the river!) "The only way since gods began To make sweet music, they could succeed." Then dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, He blew in power by the river. Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan, Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, For the reed that grows nevermore again COWPER'S GRAVE. IT is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart's decaying. He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation, And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adoration; Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good forsaken; Named softly as the household name of one whom God hath taken. With quiet sadness and no gloom I learn to think upon him, With meekness that is gratefulness to And wrought within his shattered brain such quick poetic senses As hills have language for, and stars harmonious influences! The pulse of dew upon the grass kept his within its number; And silent shadows from the trees refreshed him like a slumber. Wild timid hares were drawn from woods to share his home-caresses, Uplooking to his human eyes with sylvan tendernesses: The It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their praying: Its Yet let the grief and humbleness, as low as silence languish ! very world, by God's constraint, from falsehood's ways removing, women and its men became, beside him, true and loving. Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her anguish. O poets! from a maniac's tongue was poured the deathless singing! O Christians! at your cross of hope a hopeless hand was clinging! O men! this man in brotherhood your weary paths beguiling, Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and died while ye were smiling! And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears his story, How discord on the music fell, and darkness on the glory, things provided came without the He testified this solemn truth, while Like a sick child that knoweth not his WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. The fever gone, with leaps of heart he sees her bending o'er him; Her face all pale from watchful love, the unweary love she bore him!Thus woke the poet from the dream his life's long fever gave him, Beneath those deep pathetic Eyes, which closed in death to save him! Thus? O, not thus! no type of earth can image that awaking, Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs, round him breaking, Or felt the new immortal throb of soul from body parted; But felt those eyes alone, and knew "My Saviour! not deserted!" Deserted! who hath dreamt that when the cross in darkness rested Upon the Victim's hidden face, no love was manifested? What frantic hands outstretched have e'er the atoning drops averted, What tears have washed them from the soul, that one should be deserted? Deserted! God could separate from his own essence rather: And Adam's sins have swept between the righteous Son and Father; Yea, once, Immanuel's orphaned cry his universe hath shaken, It went up single, echoless, "My God, I am forsaken!” It went up from the Holy's lips amid his lost creation, That, of the lost, no son should use those words of desolation; That earth's worst frenzies, marring hope, should mar not hope's fruition, And I, on Cowper's grave, should see his rapture in a vision! WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. [1811-1863.] AT THE CHURCH GATE. ALTHOUGH I enter not, Yet round about the spot Ofttimes I hover; ALFRED TENNYSON. And near the sacred gate, With longing eyes I wait, Expectant of her. The minster bell tolls out And noise and humming; They've hushed the minster bell: The organ 'gins to swell; She's coming, she's coming! 195 |