How she had sought to steal away before
The sickness passed, and I was strong once more.
By fits she told the story in mine ear,
And troubled at the telling with a fear
Lest by my cold man's heart she should be chid,
Lest I should think her bold in what she did;
But, lying on my bed, I dared to say,
How I had watched and loved her many a day,
How dear she was to me, and dearer still
For that strange kindness done while I was ill,
And how I could but think that Heaven above
Had done it all to bind our lives in love.
And Polly cried, turning her face away,
And seemed afraid, and answered "yea" nor" nay;"
Then stealing close, with little pants and sighs,
Looked on my pale thin face and earnest eyes,
And seemed in act to fling her arms about
My neck; then, blushing, paused, in fluttering doubt;
Last, sprang upon my heart, sighing and sobbing—
That I might feel how gladly hers was throbbing.
Ah! ne'er shall I forget until I die,
How happily the dreamy days went by,
While I grew well, and lay with soft heart-beats,
Hearkening the pleasant murmur from the streets,
And Polly by me like a sunny beam,

And life all changed, and love a drosy dream!
'Twas happiness enough to lie and see
The little golden head bent droopingly
Over its sewing, while the still time flew,
And my fond eyes were dim with happy dew!
And then, when I was nearly well and strong,
And she went back to labor all day long,
How sweet to lie alone with half-shut eyes,
And hear the distant murmurs and the cries,
And think how pure she was from pain and sin-
And how the summer days were coming in!
Then, as the sunset faded from the room,
To listen for her footstep in the gloom,
To pant as it came stealing up the stair,
To feel my whole life brighten unaware

When the soft tap came to the door, and when
The door was open for her smile again!
Best, the long evenings!—when, till late at night,
She sat beside me in the quiet light,

And happy things were said and kisses won,
And serious gladness found its vent in fun.
Sometimes I would draw close her shining head,
And pour her bright hair out upon the bed,
And she would laugh, and blush, and try to scold,
While "here," I cried, "I count my wealth in gold!"

Once, like a little sinner for transgression,

She blushed upon my breast, and made confession:
How, when that night I woke and looked around,
I found her busy with a charm profound-
One chestnut was herself, my girl confessed,
The other was the person she loved best,
And if they burned together side by side,

He loved her, and she would become his bride;

And here is winter come again, winds blow,
The houses and the streets are white with snow;
And in the long and pleasant eventide,
Why, what is Polly making at my side?
What but a silk gown, beautiful and grand,
We bought together lately in the Strand!
And wear right queenly 'neath a honeymoon!
What but a dress to go to church in soon,

And who shall match her with her new straw bonet,
Her tiny foot and little boot upon it;
And shawl she wears as few fine ladies do?
Embroidered petticoat and silk gown new,
And she will keep, to charm away all ill,
The lucky sixpence in her pocket still;
And we will turn, come fair or cloudy weather,
To ashes, like the chestnuts, close together!

T is the miller's daughter,

And she is grown so dear, so dear,

That I would be the jewel

That trembles at her ear:

For, hid in ringlets day and night,

I'd touch her neck so warm and white.
And I would be the girdle

About her dainty, dainty waist,
And her heart would beat against me
In sorrow and in rest:

And I should know if it beat right,
I'd clasp it round so close and tight.
And I would be the necklace,

And all day long to fall and rise
Upon her balmy bosom,

With her laughter or her sighs:
And I would lie so light, so light,

I scarce should be unclasped at night.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

GONE BEFORE.

F still they kept their earthly place, The friends I held in my embrace, And gave to death, alas!

Could I have learned that clear, calm faith
That looks beyond the bounds of death,
And almost longs to pass?

Sometimes I think, the things we see
Are shadows of the things to be;

That what we plan we build;

That every hope that hath been crossed,
And every dream we thought was lost,
In heaven shall be fulfilled;

That even the children of the brain
Have not been born and died in vain,
Though here unclothed and dumb!
But on some brighter, better shore,
They live, embodied evermore,

And wait for us to come.

And when on that last day we rise,
Caught up between the earth and skies,

Then shall we hear our Lord

Say, Thou hast done with doubt and death, Henceforth, according to thy faith,

Shall be thy faith's reward.

HAPPY MATCHES.

PHOEBE CARY.

AY, mighty Love, and teach my song,
To whom thy sweetest joys belong,
And who the happy pairs

Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands,
Find blessings twisted with their bands,
To soften all their cares.

Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains
Tha thoughtless fly into thy chains

As custom leads the way:

If there be bliss without design,
Ivies and oaks may grow and twine,
And be as blest as they.

Not sordid souls of earthly mould,

Who, drawn by kindred charms of gold,
To dull embraces move:

So two rich mountains of Peru
May rush to wealthy marriage too,
And make a world of love.

Not the mad tribe that hell inspires
With wanton flames; those raging tires
The purer bliss destroy;
On Ætna's top let furies wed,
And sheets of lightning dress the bed
T'improve the burning joy.

Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms
None of the melting passions warms,
Can mingle hearts and hands:

Logs of green wood that quench the coals
Are married just like Stoic souls,

With osiers for their bands.
Not minds of melancholy strain,
Still silent, or that still complain,
Can the dear bondage bless;
As well may heavenly concerts spring
From two old lutes with ne'er a string,
Or none besides the bass.

Nor can the soft enchantments hold
Two jarring souls of angry mould,

The rugged and the keen:
Samson's young foxes might as well
In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell,
With firebrands tied between.
Nor let the cruel fetters bind
A gentle to a savage mind;

For love abhors the sight:
Loose the fierce tiger from the deer,
For native rage and native fear
Rise and forbid delight.

Two kindest souls alone must meet,

'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet,
And feeds their mutual loves:
Bright Venus on her rolling throne
Is drawn by gentlest birds alone,
And cupids yoke the doves.

ISAAC WATTS.

THE DEAD FRIEND.

'HE path by which we twain did go,

Which led by tracts that pleased us well, Through four sweet years arose and fell, From flower to flower, from snow to snow. But where the path we walked began To slant the fifth autumnal slope, As we descended, following hope, There sat the shadow feared of man ; Who broke our fair companionship,

And spread his mantle dark and cold,
And wrapped thee formless in the fold,
And dulled the murmur on thy lip.

When each by turns was guide to each,
And fancy light from fancy caught,
And thought leapt out to wed with thought
Ere thought could wed itself with speech;

And all we met was fair and good,

And all was good that time could bring,
And all the secret of the Spring
Moved in the chambers of the blood;

I know that this was life-the track
Whereon with equal feet we fared;
And then, as now, the day prepared
The daily burden for the back.

But this it was that made me move
As light as carrier-birds in air;
I loved the weight I had to bear
Because it needed help of love.
Nor could I weary, heart or limb,

When mighty love would cleave in twain
The lading of a single pain,
And part it, giving half to him.

But I remained, whose hopes were dim,
Whose life, whose thoughts were litttle worth,
To wander on a darkened earth,

Where all things round me breathed of him.

O friendship, equal-poised control,

O heart, with kindliest motion warm,

O sacred essence, other form,

O solemn ghost, O crownèd soul !

Yet none could better know than I
How much of act at human hands
The sense of human will demands,
By which we dare to live or die.
Whatever way my days decline,

I felt and feel, though left alone,
His being working in mine own,
The footseps of his life in mine.
My pulses therefore beat again

For other friends that once I met;
Nor can it suit me to forget

The mighty hopes that make us men.

I woo your love: I count it crime

To mourn for any overmuch;
I, the divided half of such
A friendship as had mastered time;
Which masters time, indeed, and is
Eternal, separate from fears:
The all-assuming months and years
Can take no part away from this.
O days and hours, your work is this,
To hold me from my proper place
A little while from his embrace,
For fuller gain of after bliss.

That out of distance might ensue

Desire of nearness doubly sweet; And unto meeting when we meet, Delight a hundred-fold accrue.

The hills are shadows, and they flow

From form to form, and nothing stands; They melt like mists, the solid lands, Like clouds they shape themselves and go.

But in my spirit will I dwell,

And dream my dream, and hold it true;
For though my lips may breathe adieu,
I cannot think the thing farewell.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

a

A BENEDICTION.

OD'S love and peace be with thee, where
Soe'er this soft autumnal air
Lifts the dark tresses of thy hair!
Whether through city casements comes
Its kiss to thee, in crowded rooms,
Or, out among the woodland blooms,

It freshens o'er thy thoughtful face,
Imparting, in its glad embrace,
Beauty to beauty, grace to grace!

Fair nature's book together read,

The old wood paths that knew our tread, The maple shadows overhead

The hills we climbed, the river seen

By gleams along its deep ravine-
All keep thy memory fresh and green.

If, then, a fervent wish for thee
The gracious heavens will heed from me,
What should, dear heart, its burden be?

The sighing of a shaken reed-
What can I more than meekly plead
The greatness of our common need?
God's love-unchanging, pure and true—
The Paraclete white-shining through
His peace-the fall of Hermon's dew!
With such a prayer, on this sweet day.
As thou mayst hear and I may say,

I greet thee, dearest, far away!

JOHN GREENLeaf Whittier.

TO A FRIEND.

RUDDY drop of manly blood
The surging sea outweighs ;

The world uncertain comes and goes,

The lover rooted stays.

I fancied he was fled

And, after many a year,

Glowed unexhausted kindliness,

Like daily sunrise there.

My careful heart was free again ;

O friend, my bosom said,

Through thee alone the sky is arched,
Through thee the rose is red;"

All things through thee take nobler form,
And look beyond the earth;

The mill-round of our fate appears

A sun-path in thy worth.

Me too thy nobleness has taught

To master my despair;

The fountains of my hidden life
Are through thy friendship fair.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

GONE BEFORE.

F still they kept their earthly place, The friends I held in my embrace, And gave to death, alas!

Could I have learned that clear, calm faith
That looks beyond the bounds of death,
And almost longs to pass?

Sometimes I think, the things we see
Are shadows of the things to be;

That what we plan we build ;

That every hope that hath been crossed,
And every dream we thought was lost,
In heaven shall be fulfilled;

That even the children of the brain
Have not been born and died in vain,
Though here unclothed and dumb!
But on some brighter, better shore,
They live, embodied evermore,

And wait for us to come.

And when on that last day we rise,
Caught up between the earth and skies,

Then shall we hear our Lord

Say, Thou hast done with doubt and death, Henceforth, according to thy faith,

Shall be thy faith's reward.

HAPPY MATCHES.

PHOEBE CARY,

AY, mighty Love, and teach my song,
To whom thy sweetest joys belong,
And who the happy pairs

Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands,
Find blessings twisted with their bands,
To soften all their cares.

Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains
Tha thoughtless fly into thy chains

As custom leads the way:

If there be bliss without design,
Ivies and oaks may grow and twine,
And be as blest as they.

Not sordid souls of earthly mould,

Who, drawn by kindred charms of gold,
To dull embraces move:

So two rich mountains of Peru
May rush to wealthy marriage too,
And make a world of love.

Not the mad tribe that hell inspires
With wanton flames; those raging tires
The purer bliss destroy ;
On Ætna's top let furies wed,
And sheets of lightning dress the bed
T'improve the burning joy.

Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms
None of the melting passions warms,
Can mingle hearts and hands:

Logs of green wood that quench the coals
Are married just like Stoic souls,

With osiers for their bands.
Not minds of melancholy strain,
Still silent, or that still complain,
Can the dear bondage bless;
As well may heavenly concerts spring
From two old lutes with ne'er a string,
Or none besides the bass.

Nor can the soft enchantments hold
Two jarring souls of angry mould,
The rugged and the keen:
Samson's young foxes might as well
In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell,
With firebrands tied between.
Nor let the cruel fetters bind
A gentle to a savage mind;

For love abhors the sight:
Loose the fierce tiger from the deer,
For native rage and native fear
Rise and forbid delight.

Two kindest souls alone must meet,
'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet,
And feeds their mutual loves:
Bright Venus on her rolling throne
Is drawn by gentlest birds alone,
And cupids yoke the doves.

ISAAC WATTS.

THE DEAD FRIEND.

HE path by which we twain did go,
Which led by tracts that pleased us well,
Through four sweet years arose and fell,
From flower to flower, from snow to snow.

But where the path we walked began
To slant the fifth autumnal slope,
As we descended, following hope,
There sat the shadow feared of man ;
Who broke our fair companionship,

And spread his mantle dark and cold,
And wrapped thee formless in the fold,
And dulled the murmur on thy lip.

When each by turns was guide to each,
And fancy light from fancy caught,

And thought leapt out to wed with thought Ere thought could wed itself with speech;

And all we met was fair and good,

And all was good that time could bring,
And all the secret of the Spring
Moved in the chambers of the blood;

I know that this was life-the track
Whereon with equal feet we fared;
And then, as now, the day prepared
The daily burden for the back.