349

Flower and bird we scarce can praise,

Having lost his sweet replies:

Cold and mute the river flows

With our tears for Anterôs.

W. CORY.

CCCII

SONG

OH! never, no, never,
Thou 'lt meet me again!

Thy spirit for ever

Has burst from its chain; The links thou has broken

Are all that remain,

For never, oh! never,
Thou 'It meet me again.

Like the sound of the viol,
That dies on the blast;
Like the shade on the dial,
Thy spirit has pass'd.
The breezes blow round me,

But give back no strain;
The shade on the dial

Returns not again.

Where roses enshrined thee,

In light trellis'd shade,

Still hoping to find thee,
How oft have I strayed!
Thy desolate dwelling

I traverse in vain ;-
The stillness has whisper'd
Thou 'lt ne'er come again.

CAROLINE OLIPHANT.

CCCIII

IN MEMORIAM

THOU wert the first of all I knew

To pass unto the dead,

And Paradise hath seemed more true,
And come down closer to my view,
Since there thy presence fled.

The whispers of thy gentle soul

At silent lonely hours,

Like some sweet saint-bell's distant toll, Come o'er the waters as they roll,

Betwixt thy world and ours.

Oh! still my spirit clings to thee,
And feels thee at my side;
Like a green ivy, when the tree,
Its shoots had clasped so lovingly,

Within its arms hath died:

And ever round that lifeless thing

Where first their clusters grew, Close as while yet it lived they cling, And shrine it in a second spring

Of lustre dark and new.

T. WHYTEHEAD.

CCCIV

ON THE DEATH OF A LITTLE GIRL

OH! cold and drear my heart has grown Since that sweet soul of thine is flown: Like the warm ivy to the tree,

Wast thou, my darling child, to me.

And close as those green tendrils twine,
Thy gentle spirit clung to mine;
Dismantled now and lone it grows,
And bare to every wind that blows.

To the cold world I turned, to rest
On its false lap my bleeding breast,
But eyes that weep, and hearts that care
For others' woes, I found not there.

I turned to home, but every spot
Tells me, sweet child, that thou art not;
And she, my soother once, and thine,
Her tear-wet cheek is pale as mine.

I turned to Heaven my anguished look,
Remembered last, though first forsook;
And angels whisper in my ear,

"Thy child, thy Saviour, all are here."

T. WHYTEHEAD.

CCCV

REMEMBRANCE

COLD in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,

Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!

Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,

Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover

Over the mountains, on that northern shore,

Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?

Cold in the earth-and fifteen wild Decembers,
From those brown hills, have melted into Spring;
Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers

After such years of change and suffering!

353

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,
While the world's tide is bearing me along,
Other desires and other hopes beset me,
Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

No later light has lightened up my heaven,
No second morn has ever shone for me;
All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

But when the days of golden dreams had perished,
And even despair was powerless to destroy;
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.

Then did I check the tears of useless passion-
Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
Down to that tomb, already more than mine.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,
Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain;
Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
How could I seek the empty world again?

EMILY BRONTË.