before,

Deeming she needs must read aright
What was writ so passing bright.
And yet, alas! she knew not why,
Her voice would falter in its song,
And tears would slide from out her eye,
Silent, as they were doing wrong.
O stern word - Nevermore !

The tongue that scarce had learned
to claim

An entrance to a mother's heart
By that dear talisman, a mother's name,
Sleeps all forgetful of its art !
I loved to see the infant soul
(How mighty in the weakness
Of its untutored meekness !)
Peep timidly from out its nest,

His lips, the while,
Fluttering with half-fledged words,
Or hushing to a smile
That more than words expressed,
When his glad mother on him stole
And snatched him to her breast !

O, thoughts were brooding in those

eyes,

That would have soared like strong

winged birds

Far, far, into the skies,
Gladding the earth with song,
And gushing harmonies,
Had he but tarried with us long!
O stern word - Nevermore !

How peacefully they rest,
Crossfolded there
Upon his little breast,

Those small, white hands that ne'er

were still before,

But ever sported with his mother's hair,

Or the plain cross that on her breast

she wore !

Her heart no more will beat

To feel the touch of that soft palm, That ever seemed a new surprise Sending glad thoughts up to her eyes To bless him with their holy calm, Sweet thoughts! they made her eyes

as sweet.

How quiet are the hands
That wove those pleasant bands!
But that they do not rise and sink
With his calm breathing, I should think
That he were dropped asleep.

Alas! too deep, too deep
Is this his slumber !

Time scarce can number

The years ere he will wake again.

O, may we see his eyelids open then ! O stern word - Nevermore !

hill,

And, to her heart so calm and deep, Murmurs over in her sleep, Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still "Evermore!"

Thus, on Life's weary sea,
Heareth the marinere
Voices sweet, from far and near,
Ever singing low and clear,
Ever singing longingly.

Is it not better here to be,
Than to be toiling late and soon?
In the dreary night to see
Nothing but the blood-red moon
Go up and down into the sea,
Or, in the loneliness of day,

To see the still seals only Solemnly lift their faces gray, Making it yet more lonely? Is it not better, than to hear

Into the cold depth of the sea !
Look down! Look down!

Thus, on Life's lonely sea,
Heareth the marinere
Voices sad, from far and near,
Ever singing full of fear,
Ever singing drearfully.

Here all is pleasant as a dream;
The wind scarce shaketh down the dew,
The green grass floweth like a stream

Into the ocean's blue;
Listen! O, listen !

Here is a gush of many streams,
A song of many birds,
And every wish and longing seems
Lulled to a numbered flow of words,
Listen! O, listen !
Here ever hum the golden bees
Underneath full-blossomed trees,

At once with glowing fruit and flowers

crowned;

The sand is so smooth, the yellow sand, That thy keel will not grate as it touches the land;

All around with a slumberous sound,

The singing waves slide up the strand,

4

And, though herself not unacquaint with care,

Hath in her heart wide room for all that be,

Her heart that hath no secrets of its own,

But open is as eglantine full blown.
Cloudless forever is her brow serene,
Speaking calm hope and trust within
her, whence

Welleth a noiseless spring of patience,
That keepeth all her life so fresh, so
green
And full of holiness, that every look,
The greatness of her woman's soul re-

vealing,

Unto me bringeth blessing, and a feeling As when I read in God's own holy book.

A graciousness in giving that doth make The small'st gift greatest, and a sense most meek

Of worthiness, that doth not fear to take From others, but which always fears to speak Its thanks in utterance, for the giver's sake; The deep religion of a thankful heart, Which rests instinctively in Heaven's clear law

With a full peace, that never can depart From its own steadfastness; - a holy

awe

In-seeing sympathy is hers, which chasteneth

No less than loveth, scorning to be bound

With fear of blame, and yet which ever hasteneth

To pour the balm of kind looks on the wound,

If they be wounds which such sweet teaching makes,

Giving itself a pang for others' sakes; No want of faith, that chills with sidelong eye,

Hath she; no jealousy, no Levite pride That passeth by upon the other side; For in her soul there never dwelt a lie. Right from the hand of God her spirit

came

Unstained, and she hath ne'er forgotten whence

It came, nor wandered far from thence, But laboreth to keep her still the same, Near to her place of birth, that she may not

Soil her white raiment with an earthly spot.

Yet sets she not her soul so steadily Above, that she forgets her ties to earth,

But her whole thought would almost seem to be

How to make glad one lowly human hearth;

For holy things, - not those which men call holy,

For with a gentle courage she doth strive

But such as are revealed to the eyes Of a true woman's soul bent down and lowly

In thought and word and feeling so to live

Before the face of daily mysteries; A love that blossoms soon, but ripens slowly

As to make earth next heaven; and her heart

Herein doth show its most exceeding worth,

To the full goldenness of fruitful prime, Enduring with a firmness that defies All shallow tricks of circumstance and

That, bearing in our frailty her just part, She hath not shrunk from evils of this life, But hath gone calmly forth into the strife, And all its sins and sorrows hath withstood