The red rose cries, 'She is near, she is

near ;'

And the white rose weeps, 'She is

late ;'

The larkspur listens, I hear, I hear; ' And the lily whispers, I wait.'

XI.

She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

PART II.

I.

I.

'THE fault was mine, the fault was

mine'

Why am I sitting here so stunn'd and still, Plucking the harmless wild-flower on the hill?

It is this guilty hand !—

And there rises ever a passionate cry From underneath in the darkening landWhat is it, that has been done?

O dawn of Eden bright over earth and sky, The fires of Hell brake out of thy rising

sun,

The fires of Hell and of Hate;

For she, sweet soul, had hardly spoken a word,

When her brother ran in his rage to the gate,

He came with the babe-faced lord;
Heap'd on her terms of disgrace,

And while she wept, and I strove to be

cool,

He fiercely gave me the lie,

Till I with as fierce an anger spoke,

And he struck me, madman, over the face, Struck me before the languid fool,

Who was gaping and grinning by: Struck for himself an evil stroke; Wrought for his house an irredeemable woe;

For front to front in an hour we stood, And a million horrible bellowing echoes broke

From the red-ribb'd hollow behind the wood,

And thunder'd up into Heaven the Christless code,

That must have life for a blow.

Ever and ever afresh they seem'd to grow. Was it he lay there with a fading eye? 'The fault was mine,' he whisper'd, ‘fly!' Then glided out of the joyous wood The ghastly Wraith of one that I know; And there rang on a sudden a passionate cry,

A cry for a brother's blood:

It will ring in my heart and my ears, till I die, till I die.

II.

Is it gone? my pulses beat—

What was it? a lying trick of the brain?
Yet I thought I saw her stand,

A shadow there at my feet,
High over the shadowy land.

It is gone; and the heavens fall in a gentle rain,

When they should burst and drown with deluging storms

The feeble vassals of wine and anger and lust,

The little hearts that know not how to

forgive :

Arise, my God, and strike, for we hold

Thee just,

Strike dead the whole weak race of veno

mous worms,

IX.

Who knows if he be dead?

Whether I need have fled?
Am I guilty of blood?

However this may be,

Comfort her, comfort her, all things good, While I am over the sea!

Let me and my passionate love go by, But speak to her all things holy and high, Whatever happen to me !

Me and my harmful love go by ;

But come to her waking, find her asleep, Powers of the height, Powers of the deep, And comfort her tho' I die.

III.

Courage, poor heart of stone!

I will not ask thee why

Thou canst not understand

That thou art left for ever alone :

Courage, poor stupid heart of stone.Or if I ask thee why,

Care not thou to reply:

She is but dead, and the time is at hand When thou shalt more than die.

IV.

I.

O that 'twere possible
After long grief and pain

To find the arms of my true love
Round me once again!

II.

When I was wont to meet her
In the silent woody places
By the home that gave me birth,
We stood tranced in long embraces
Mixt with kisses sweeter sweeter
Than anything on earth.

III.

A shadow flits before me,

Not thou, but like to thee:

Ah Christ, that it were possible

For one short hour to see

The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be.

IV.

It leads me forth at evening,
It lightly winds and steals
In a cold white robe before me,
When all my spirit reels

At the shouts, the leagues of lights,
And the roaring of the wheels.

V.

Half the night I waste in sighs,
Half in dreams I sorrow after
The delight of early skies;
In a wakeful doze I sorrow
For the hand, the lips, the eyes,
For the meeting of the morrow,
The delight of happy laughter,
The delight of low replies.

VI.

'Tis a morning pure and sweet,
And a dewy splendour falls
On the little flower that cling
To the turrets and the walls;
'Tis a morning pure and sweet,
And the light and shadow fleet;
She is walking in the meadow,
And the woodland echo rings;
In a moment we shall meet;
She is singing in the meadow
And the rivulet at her feet
Ripples on in light and shadow
To the ballad that she sings.

VII.

Do I hear her sing as of old,

My bird with the shining head,

My own dove with the tender eye?

But there rings on a sudden a passionate

cry,

There is some one dying or dead,