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I cannot tell how it might be
In other homes; but this I know:
Could my lost darling come to me,
That she would never find it so.

Ofttimes the flowers have come and gone,
Ofttimes the winter winds have blown,
The while her peaceful rest went on,
And I have learned to live alone.

Have slowly learned from day to day
In all life's task to bear my part:
But whether grave, or whether gay,
I hide her memory in my heart.

Fond, faithful love has blest my way,
And friends are round me true and tried
They have their places-hers to-day
Is empty as the day she died.

How would I spring with bated breath,
And joy too deep for word or sign,
To take my darling home from death,
And once again to call her mine!

I dare not dream the blissful dream.
It fills my heart with wild unrest;
Where yonder cold white marbles gleam,

She still must slumber-God knows best!

THY HANDS WILL DRAW ME IN. 195

But this I know, that those who say

Our best beloved word find no place, Have never hungered every day

Through years and years for one dear face!

THY HANDS WILL DRAW ME IN.

Once in the twilight of a wintry day,
One passed me silent, struggling on his way,
With head bowed low and hands that burdens

bore,

And saw not how a little space before,

A woman watched his coming, where the light Poured a glad welcome through a window bright, Set thick with flowers that showed no fairer bloom

Than her sweet face, turned outward to the gloom.

Yet when his foot, with quick impatient stride, But touched the step, the door swung open wide; Soft hands reached swiftly out, with eager hold, And drew the dear one in from storm and cold.

O love! whose eyes, from some celestial height,
Behold me toiling burdened through the night,
Sender of every blast at which I cower,
Yet smiling still, to know how brief the hour,

Keeping within thy radiant, love-lit home,
Some glad surprise to whisper when I come-
"Tis but a breath till I the door shall win,
And thy dear hands will softly draw me in.

WOMAN.

There in the fane a beauteous creature stands,
The first best work of the Creator's hands,
Whose slender limbs inadequately bear
A full-orbed bosom and a weight of care;
Whose teeth like pearls, whose lips like cherries
show,

And fawn-like eyes still tremble as they glow.
WILSON.
Translated from the German

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.

She walks in beauty, like the night,

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace,
Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face,

TRUE LOVE.

Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear, their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent.

197

TRUE LOVE.

BYRON.

I think not on my father,

And these great tears grace his remembrance

more

Than those I shed for him. What was he like?
I have forgot him; my imagination
Carries no favor in it, but Bertram's.
I am undone; there is no living, none,
If Bertram be away. It were all one
That I should love a bright particular star,
And think to wed it, he is so above me;
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
The ambition in my love thus plagues itself.
The hind that would be mated by the lion
Must die for love. "Twas pretty though a plague
To see him every hour; to sit and draw
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,

In our heart's table; heart, too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favor.
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his relics.

SHAKSPEARE.

REMEMBER THEE.

Remember thee? Yes, while there's life in this

heart

It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art; More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom and thy showers,

Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours.

Wert thou all that I wish thee-great, glorious and free,

First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea,-

I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow;

But oh, could I love thee more deeply than now?

No; thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it runs,

But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons, Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird's nest

Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast.

THOMAS MOORE.

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