And show, as they say it does, past things clear?

"And was it the innermost heart of the bliss

To find out so, what a wisdom love is?

O perfect dead! O dead most dear!
I hold the breath of my soul to hear.

"I listen as deep as to horrible hell,

As high as to heaven, and you do not tell.

There must be pleasure in dying, sweet,

To make you so placid from head to feet!

"I would tell you, darling, if I were dead,

And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed,

“I would say, though the Angel of Death had laid His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid.

You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes,
Which of all deaths was the chiefest surprise,

"The very strangest and suddenest thing
Of all the surprises that dying must bring."

Ah foolish world! O most kind dead!
Though he told me, who will believe it was said?

Who will believe that he heard her say,
With the sweet soft voice, in the dear old way:

The utmost wonder is this, I hear

And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear;

"And am your angel, who was your bride,

And know that, though dead, I have never died.”

A HOME SONG.

The swallow is come from his African home
To build on the English eaves;

The sycamore wears all his glistering spears,

And the aimond rains roseate leaves;

And dear Love!-with thee, as with bird and with tree, 'Tis the time of blossom and nest,

Then, what good thing of the bountiful Spring

Shall I liken to thee-the best?

Over the streamlet the rose-bushes bend

Clouded with tender green,

And green the buds grow upon every bough,

Though as yet no rose-tint is seen;

Like those, thou art come to thy promise of bloom,
Like theirs, thine shunneth the light;

Break, rose-bud!-and let a longing heart know
If the blossom be red or white!

Up the broad river with swelling sails

A glorious vessel goes,

And not more clear in the soft blue air
Than in the still water she shows!
Dost thou not go with as brave a show,
And, sooth, with as swelling a state?
Oh, come into harbor with that thou bear'st,
Dear ship!-for I eagerly wait.

Fair ship!-ah, Kate! none beareth a freight

As precious and rich as thine,

And where's the rose-bush that will burgeon and blush With a blossom like thine and mine?

-Well! well!-we do as the meadow-birds too,
Since meadows with gold were dyed,—
The hen sits at rest in the hidden nest,
And her mate sings glad at her side.

SWANSCOMBE, April, 1857.

THE RAJAH'S RIDE.

A PUNJAB SONG.

Now is the Devil-horse come to Sindh!
Wah! wah! Gooroo!-that is true!
His belly is stuffed with the fire and the wind,
But a fleeter steed had Runjeet Dehu!

It's forty koss from Lahore to the ford
Forty and more to far Jummoo;
Fast may go the Feringhee lord,

But never so fast as Runjeet Dehu!

Runjeet Dehu was King of the Hill,
Lord and eagle of every crest;

Now the swords and the spears are still,
God will have it-and God knows best!

Rajah Runjeet sate in the sky,
Watching the loaded Kafilas in;
Affghan, Kashmeree, passing by,
Paid him pushm to save their skin.

Once he caracoled into the plain,

Wah! the sparkle of steel on steel! And up the pass came singing again

With a lakh of silver borne at his heel.

Once he trusted the Mussulman's word,

Wah! wah! trust a liar to lie!

Down from his eyrie they tempted my Bird, And clipped his wings that he could not fly.

Fettered him fast in far Lahore

Fast by the gate at the Runchenee Pûl; Sad was the soul of Chunda Kour,

Glad the merchants of rich Kurnool.

Ten months Runjeet lay in Lahore-
Wah! a hero's heart is brass!
Ten months never did Chunda Kour
Braid her hair at the tiring-glass.

There came a steed from Toorkistan,

Wah! God made him to match the hawk!

Fast beside him the four grooms ran,

To keep abreast of the Toorkman's walk.

Black as the bear on Iskardoo;

Savage at heart as a tiger chained;

Fleeter than hawk that ever flew,

Never a Muslim could ride him reined.

Runjeet Dehu! come forth from thy hold "-
Wah! ten months had rusted his chain!

Ride this Sheitan's liver cold"—

Runjeet twisted his hand in the mane;

Runjeet sprang to the Toorkman's back,
Wah! a king on a kingly throne!
Snort, black Sheitan! till nostrils crack,
Rajah Runjeet sits, a stone.

Three times round the maidan he rode,

Touched its neck at the Kashmeree wall, Struck the spurs till they spirted blood, Leapt the rampart before them all!

Breasted the waves of the blue Ravee,
Forty horsemen mounting behind,

Forty bridle-chains flung free,

Wah! wah! better chase the wind!

Chunda Kour sate sad in Jummoo:

Hark! what horse-hoof echoes without?

Rise! and welcome Runjeet Dehu-
Wash the Toorkman's nostrils out!

Forty koss he has come, my life!

Forty koss back he must carry me;

Rajah Runjeet visits his wife,

He steals no steed like an Afreedee.

They bade me teach them how to ride

Wah! wah! now I have taught them well!" Chunda Kour sank low at his side;

Rajah Runjeet rode the hill.

When he came back to far Lahore

Long or ever the night began— Spake he, “Take your horse once more,

He carries well-when he bears a man!"

Then they gave him a khillut and gold,

All for his honor and grace and truth; Send him back to his mountain-hold— Muslim manners have touch of ruth;