Page:Littell's Living Age - Volume 138.pdf/715

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Be quiet, restless heart! The long light lies
In gleams of lingering sunshine on the hill;
The home-bound swallow, twittering as he flies,
Makes silence seem more still.

The shadows deeper grow, and in the woods
The air a latent sweetness holds in fee;
An odor faint of yet unblossomed buds —
So like, dear heart, to thee!

Far distant in the soft, cerulean deep,
Where the horizon bounds the nether world,
Great ships becalmed, like brooding birds asleep,
Lie with white sails loose furled.

In peace the day is ended, and the night
Falleth as doth a veil upon the sea;
Along its bosom come with swift-winged flight
The gray mists silently.

O anxious heart, how Nature speaks! Her power
How leisurely she uses! How intense
The infinite peace of her most fruitful hour!
How soft her influence!

Time hath she for her Storms to sweep the main;
To rock the treetops with her winds of wrath;
To bring forth fragrance in the summer rain;
And time for snow she hath.

So, dear, for all thy eager soul desires,
She keeps sweet times and seasons. In her mood
Is hid for thee all passion's subtle fires,
To round thy womanhood.

Cease, then! and in this dewy twilight, move
As one who asks not whither, cares not why;
This gift for all holds still the eternal love —
God's endless by-and-by.

Primitive Methodist.


Seest thou, O maid! some star by us unseen,
Buried from us in depths of starless space?
Know'st thou some joy of lesser joys the queen
That lights so sweet a mystery in thy face?

That face is as the face of them that bask
In some great tidings, or the face of one
Who late hath set his hand upon some task
By God ordained, that shall for God be done.

That light is as the light of them who bent —
That shepherd choir — above the babe new born:
Upward from Him thy day is ever sent,
A lifelong kindling of the Bethlehem morn.

Aubrey de Vere.


When darkness hides me, dearest,
And when, this face, now daily in thy sight,
Becomes a dream to haunt the silent night,
And vanish when the busy noon is clearest;

Then, dear, the love I gave thee,
Which ever for thy coming, lay in wait,
Exacting often and importunate,
Shall be a memory to bless and save thee.

Some little foolish saying
Will wander back unto thee from the past,
Like a stray rose-branch o'er thy pathway cast,
With flowers and thorns thy careless steps waylaying.

June roses in December! —
Dream roses, yet their phantom thorns give pain.
Somewhere, somehow, when we two meet again,
How much must we forget, how much remember!

Lady Charlotte Elliot.


O star on the breast of the river,
0 marvel of bloom and grace,
Did you fall straight down from heaven
Out of the sweetest place?
You are white as the thoughts of an angel;
Your heart is steeped in the sun;
Did you grow in the golden city,
My pure and radiant one?

Nay, nay, I fell not out of heaven;
None gave me my saintly white;
It slowly grew from the blackness
Down in the dreary night.
From the ooze of the silent river
I won my glory and grace.
White souls fall not, O my poet;
They rise to the sweetest place.

Sunday Afternoon.M. F. Butts.


A child's a plaything for an hour;
Its pretty tricks we try
For that or for a longer space;
Then tire and lay it by.

But I knew one that to itself
All seasons could control;
That would have mocked the sense of pain
Out of a grievèd soul.

Thou straggler into loving arms,
Young climber up of knees,
When I forget thy thousand ways,
Then life and all shall cease.

Charles Lamb.