Oh! it longed for holier fire
Than this spark in earthly shrine;
Oh! it soared, and higher, higher,
Sought to reach a home divine.
Hopeless quest! Soon weak and weary
Flagged the pinion, drooped the plume:
And again in sadness dreary
Came the baffled wanderer home.
And again it turned for soothing
To th' unfinished, broken dream;
While, the ruffled current smoothing,
Thought rolled on her startled stream.
I have felt this cherished feeling,
Sweet and known to none but me;
Still I felt it nightly healing.
Each dark day's despondency.
THERE'S no use in weeping,
Though we are condemned to part:
There's such a thing as keeping
A remembrance in one's heart;
There's such a thing as dwelling
On the thought ourselves have nursed,
And with scorn and courage telling
The world to do its worst.
We'll not let its follies grieve us—
We'll just take them as they come ;
And then every day will leave us
A merry laugh for home.
When we've left each friend and brother,
When we're parted wide and far,
We will think of one another
As even better than we are.
Every glorious sight above us,
Every pleasant sight beneath,
We'll connect with those that love us,
Whom we truly love till death.
In the evening, when we're sitting
By the fire, perchance alone,
Then shall heart with warm heart meeting
Give responsive tone for tone.
We can burst the bonds which chain us,
Which cold human hands have wrought,
And where none shall dare restrain us
We can meet again in thought.
So there's no use in weeping;
Bear a cheerful spirit still;
Never doubt that Fate is keeping
Future good for present ill.
APOSTASY.
THIS last denial of my faith,
Thou, solemn priest, hast heard;
And though upon my bed of death,
I call not back a word.
Point not to thy Madonna, priest--
Thy sightless saint of stone;
She cannot, from this burning breast,
Wring one repentant moan.
Thou say'st that when a sinless child
I duly bent the knee,
And prayed to what in marble smiled
Cold, lifeless, mute on me.
I did. But listen. Children spring
Full soon to riper youth;
And for love's vow and wedlock's ring
I sold my early truth.
'Twas not a gray, bare head like thine Bent o'er me when I said,
66 That land and God and faith are mine For which thy fathers bled."
I see thee not-my eyes are dim—
But well I hear thee say,
O daughter, cease to think of him
Who led thy soul astray.
"Between you lies both
Let leagues and years prevail
To turn thee from the path of crime
Back to the Church's pale."
And did I need that thou shouldst tell
What mighty barriers rise.
To part me from that dungeon-cell
Where my loved Walter lies?
And did I need that thou shouldst taunt
My dying hour at last
By bidding this worn spirit pant
No more for what is past?
Priest, must I cease to think of him?
How hollow rings that word!
Can time, can tears, can distance dim
The memory of my lord?
I said before, I saw not thee,
Because, an hour agone,
Over my eyeballs, heavily,
The lids fell down like stone.
But still my spirit's inward sight
Beholds his image beam
As fixed, as clear, as burning bright,
As some red planet's gleam.
Talk not of thy last sacrament,
Tell not thy beads for me;
Both rite and prayer are vainly spent
As dews upon the sea.
Speak not one word of heaven above,
Rave not of hell's alarms;
Give me but back my Walter's love,
Restore me to his arms.
Then will the bliss of heaven be won;
Then will hell shrink away,
As I have seen night's terrors shun
The conquering steps of day.
'Tis my religion thus to love,
My creed thus fixed to be;
Not death shall shake nor priestcraft break
My rock-like constancy.
Now go; for at the door there waits
Another stranger guest.
He calls-I come; my pulse scarce beats,
My heart fails in my breast.
Again that voice; how far away,
How dreary sounds that tone!
And I, methinks, am gone astray
In trackless wastes and lone.
I fain would rest a little while.
Where can I find a stay
Till dawn upon the hills shall smile
And show some trodden way?
I come! I come!" in haste she said;
"'Twas Walter's voice I heard!
Then up she sprang, but fell back dead-
His name her latest word.
WINTER STORES.
We take from life one little share,
And say that this shall be
A space redeemed from toil and care,
From tears and sadness free.
And, haply, Death unstrings his bow,
And Sorrow stands apart,
And, for a little while, we know
The sunshine of the heart.
Existence seems a summer eve,
Warm, soft, and full of peace ;
Our free, unfettered feelings give
The soul its full release.
A moment, then, it takes the power
To call up thoughts that throw
Around that charmed and hallowed hour
This life's divinest glow.
But time, though viewlessly it flies,
And slowly, will not stay,
Alike through clear and clouded skies
It cleaves its silent way.
Alike the bitter cup of grief,
Alike the draught of bliss;
Its progress leaves but moment brief
For baffled lips to kiss.
The sparkling draught is dried away,
The hour of rest is gone,
And urgent voices round us say,
"Ho, lingerer, hasten on!"
And has the soul, then, only gained.
From this brief time of ease
A moment's rest, when overstrained,
One hurried glimpse of peace?
No; while the sun shone kindly o'er us,
And flowers bloomed round our feet,
While many a bud of joy before us
Unclosed its petals sweet,
|