If I have lost his love,

I know my heart will break ; And haply, they I left for him

Will sorrow for my sake.

A SICK-BED.

LONG hast thou watched my bed, And smoothed the pillow oft

For this poor, aching head,

With touches kind and soft.

Oh! smooth it yet again,
As softly as before;
Once-only once-and then
I need thy hand no more.

Yet here I may not stay,

Where I so long have lain, Through many a restless day And many a night of pain.

But bear me gently forth
Beneath the open sky,
Where, on the pleasant earth,
Till night the sunbeams lie.

There, through the coming days,
I shall not look to thee
My weary side to raise,
And shift it tenderly.

There sweetly shall I sleep;
Nor wilt thou need to bring
And put to my hot lip

Cool water from the spring;

Nor wet the kerchief laid

Upon my burning brow;

Nor from my eyeballs shade

The light that wounds them now;

Nor watch that none shall tread,

With noisy footstep, nigh; Nor listen by my bed,

To hear my faintest sigh,

And feign a look of cheer,

And words of comfort speak,

Yet turn to hide the tear

That gathers on thy cheek.

Beside me, where I rest,

Thy loving hands will set
The flowers that please me best-
Moss-rose and violet.

Then to the sleep I crave
Resign me, till I see
The face of Him who gave

His life for thee and me.

Yet, with the setting sun,

Come, now and then, at eve,

And think of me as one

For whom thou shouldst not grieve;

The harvest that o'erflows the vale,

And swells, an amber sea, between
The full-leaved woods.

SONG OF THE SOWER, p. 279.

Who, when the kind release
From sin and suffering came,
Passed to the appointed peace
In murmuring thy name.

Leave at my side a space,

Where thou shalt come, at last,

To find a resting-place,

When many years are past.

THE SONG OF THE SOWER.

I.

THE maples redden in the sun;

In autumn gold the beeches stand;
Rest, faithful plough, thy work is done
Upon the teeming land.

Bordered with trees whose gay leaves fly
On every breath that sweeps the sky,
The fresh dark acres furrowed lie,

And ask the sower's hand.

Loose the tired steer and let him go
To pasture where the gentians blow,
And we, who till the grateful ground,
Fling we the golden shower around.

II.

Fling wide the generous grain; we fling O'er the dark mould the green of spring. For thick the emerald blades shall grow, When first the March winds melt the snow,