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With that look, besides, we have

I had died, dear, all the same,
Life's long, joyous, jostling game
Is too loud for my meek shame.
We are so unlike each other,

Thou and I, that none could guess
But for mutual tenderness.
Thou art rose-lined from the cold,
And meant, verily, to hold
Life's pure pleasures manifold.

Close beside a rose-tree's root!
Whosoe'er would reach the rose,
Treads the crocus underfoot ;

And that hour - beneath the beach

I like May-bloom on thorn-tree, When I listened in a dream,

Thou like merry summer-bee !
And he said, in his deep speech,

Fit, that I be plucked for thee.
That he owed me all esteem
Each word swam in on my brain

Yet who plucks me ? — no one mourns ;

I have lived my season out,
With a dim, dilating pain,
Till it burst with that last strain.

And now die of my own thorns,

Which I could not live without. I fell flooded with a dark,

Sweet, be merry! How the light In the silence of a swoon ;

Comes and goes! If it be night, When I rose, still, cold, and stark,

Keep the candles in my sight. There was night,

I saw the moon; And the stars, each in its place,

Are there footsteps at the door ? And the May-blooms on the grass,

Look out quickly. Yea, or nay? Seemed to wonder what I was.

Some one might be waiting for

Some last word that I might say. And I walked as if apart

Nay? So best !- So angels would From myself when I could stand,

Stand off clear from deathly road, And I pitied my own heart,

Not to cross the sight of God.
As if I held it in my hand
Somewhat coldly, with a sense

Colder grow my hands and feet,
Of fulfilled benevolence,

When I wear the shroud I made, And Poor thing” negligence.

Let the folds lie straight and neat,

And the rosemary be spread, And I answered coldly too,

That if any friend should come, When you met me at the door ;

(To see thee, sweet !) all the room And I only heard the dew

May be lifted out of gloom.
Dripping from me to the floor;
And the flowers I bade you see

And, dear Bertha, let me keep
Were too withered for the bee,

On my hand this little ring, As my life, henceforth, for me.

Which at nights, when others sleep,

I can still see glittering.
Do not weep so - dear – heart-warm !

Let me wear it out of sight,
It was best as it befell !
If I

In the grave, — where it will light say he did me harm, I

All the dark up, day and night. speak wild, - I am not well. All his words were kind and good,

On that grave drop not a tear !
He esteemed me! Only blood
Runs so faint in womanhood.

Else, though fathom-deep the place,
Through the woollen shroud I wear

I shall feel it on my face.
was too grave,
Liked the saddest ballads sung,

Rather smile there, blessed one,
Thinking of me in the sun,

Or forget me, smiling on !
Art thou near me ? nearer ? so !

Kiss me close upon the eyes,
That the earthly light may go

Sweetly as it used to rise,

When I watched the morning gray We were children of one mother,

Strike, betwixt the hills, the way

He was sure to come that day. So - no more vain words be said !

The hosannas nearer roll

Mother, smile now on thy dead,
as crocus grows

I am death-strong in my soul !
Mystic Dove alit on cross,
Guide the poor bird of the snows
Through the snow-wind above loss !

Then I always

In our faces who die young.

I am pale

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

SIDNEY DOBELL

Jesus, victim, comprehending

As a peculiar darling ? Lo, the flies
Love's divine self-abnegation,

Hum o'er him! Lo, a feather from the crow Cleanse my love in its self-spending, Falls in his parted lips ! Lo, his dead eyes And absorb the poor libation !

See not the raven! Lo, the worm,

the worm Wind my thread of life up higher, Creeps from his festering corse! My God! my Up through angels' hands of fire !

God !
I aspire while I expire !

O Lord, Thou doest well. I am content.
If Thou have need of him he shall not stay.
But as one calleth to a servant, saying

“At such a time be with me," so, O Lord, HOMESICK.

Call him to Thee! O, bid him not in haste

Straight whence he standeth. Let him lay aside COME to me, O my Mother ! come to me,

The soiléd tools of labor. Let him wash Thine own son slowly dying far away! Through the moist ways of the wide ocean, blown His hands of blood. Let him array himself By great invisible winds, come stately ships

Meet for his Lord, pure from the sweat and fume To this calm bay for quiet anchorage ;

Of corporal travail ! Lord, if he must die,

Let him die here. O, take him where Thou garest! They come, they rest awhile, they go away, But, O my Mother, never comest thou !

And even as once I held him in my womb The snow is round thy dwelling, the white snow, Till all things were fulfilled, and he came forth, That cold soft revelation pure as light,

So, O Lord, let me hold him in my grave And the pine-spire is mystically fringed, Till the time come, and Thou, who settest when Laced with incrusted silver. Here—ah me!

The hinds shall calve, ordain a better birth; The winter is decrepit, underborn,

And as I looked and saw my son, and wept A leper with no power but his disease.

For joy, I look again and see my son,
Why am I from thee, Mother, far from thee?

And weep again for joy of him and Thee !
Far from the frost enchantment, and the woods
Jewelled from bough to bough? O home, my

home!
O river in the valley of my home,

THE FAREWELL
With mazy-winding motion intricate,
Twisting thy deathless music underneath
The polished ice-work, — must I nevermore
Behold thee with familiar eyes, and watch

GONE, gone,

-sold and gone, Thy beauty changing with the changeful day,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone. Thy beauty constant to the constant change? Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings,

Where the noisome insect stings,
Where the fever demon strews

Poison with the falling dews,
THE ABSENT SOLDIER SON.

Where the sickly sunbeams glare
Through the hot and misty air,

Gone, gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone, LORD, I am weeping. As Thou wilt, O Lord,

From Virginia's hill and waters, Do with him as Thou wilt; but O my God,

Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! Let himn come back to die! Let not the fowls O'the air defile the body of my child,

Gone, gone, — sold and gone, My own fair child, that when he was a babe,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone. I lift up in my arms and gave to Thee !

There no mother's eye is near them, Let' not his garment, Lord, be vilely parted,

There no mother's ear can hear them ; Nor the fine linen which these hands have spun Never, when the torturing lash Fall to the stranger's lot! Shall the wild bird, Seams their back with many a gash, That would have pilfered of the ox, this year Shall a mother's kindness bless them, Disdain the pens and stalls ? Shall her blind Or a mother's arms caress them. young,

Gone, gone,

-sold and gone, That on the fleck and moult of brutish beasts

To the rice-swamp dank and lone, Had been too happy, sleep in cloth of gold

From Virginia's hills and waters, Whereof each thread is to this beating heart

Woe is me, my stolen daughters !

OF A VIRGINIA SLAVE MOTHER TO HER DAUGHTERS SOLD

INTO SOUTHERN BONDAGE.

DAVID GRAY.

FROM

THE ROMAN.

sold and gone,

Gone, gone,

sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
0, when weary, sad, and slow,
From the fields at night they go,
Faint with toil, and racked with pain,
To their cheerless homes again,
There no brother's voice shall greet them,-
There no father's welcome meet them.
Gone, gone,

sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,
Woe is me, my stolen daughters !

sold and gone,

Gone, gone,

- sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
Toiling through the weary day,
And at night the spoiler's prey.
O that they had earlier died,
Sleeping calmly, side by side,
Where the tyrant's power is o'er,
And the fetter galls no more !

Gone, gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,
Woe is me, my stolen daughters !
Gone, gone,

-sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
By the holy love He beareth,
By the bruised reed He spareth,
O, may He, to whom alone
All their cruel wrongs are known,
Still their hope and refuge prove,
With a more than mother's love.

Gone, gone, — sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,
Woe is me, my stolen daughters !

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

Gone, gone,

sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From the tree whose shadow lay
On their childhood's place of play,
From the cool spring where they drank,
Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank,
From the solemn house of prayer,
And the holy counsels there,

Gone, gone, — sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,
Woe is me, my stolen daughters !

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Nor need I write — to tell the tale

My pen were doubly weak : O, what can idle words avail,

Unless the heart could speak ?

I may not, dare not, fancy now
The grief that clouds thy lovely brow,

* My life, I love thee.

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ADIEU, ADIEU ! OUR DREAM OF LOVE-“If to fair India's coast we sail,

Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright, ADIEU, adieu ! our dream of love

Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, Was far too sweet to linger long ;

Thy skin is ivory so white. Such hopes may bloom in bowers above,

Thus every beauteous object that I view But here they mock the fond and young.

Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. We met in hope, we part in tears ! Yet 0, 't is sadly sweet to know

“Though battle call me from thy arms, That life, in all its future years,

Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; Can reach us with no heavier blow !

Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms

William shall to his dear return. The hour is come, the spell is past;

Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, Far, far from thee, my only love,

Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye." Youth's earliest hope, and manhood's last, My darkened spirit turns to rove.

The boatswain gave the dreadful word,

The sails their swelling bosom spread ; Adieu, adieu! 0, dull and dread

No longer must she stay aboard ; Sinks on the ear that parting knell !

They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. Hope and the dreams of love lie dead, - Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land ;

To them and thee, farewell, farewell ! “Atlieu!" she cries; and waved her lily hand.

THOMAS K. HERVEY.

JOHN GAY.

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