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Be verily bitter as self-sacrifice, We are no less selfish! If we sleep on rocks

Or roses, sleeping past the hour of

noon,

We're lazy.

[From Aurora Leigh.]

A CHARACTER.

As light November snows to empty nests,

As grass to graves, as moss to mildewed stones,

As July suns to ruins, through the

rents,

As ministering spirits to mourners, through a loss,

As Heaven itself to men, through pangs of death

He came uncalled wherever grief had

come.

[From Aurora Leigh.]

PICTURE OF MARIAN ERLE.

SHE was not white nor brown But could look either, like a mist that changed

According to being shone on more or less.

The hair, too, ran its opulence of curls

In doubt 'twixt dark and bright, nor left you clear

To name the color. Too much hair perhaps

(I'll name a fault here) for so small a head,

Which seemed to droop on that side and on this,

As a full-blown rose, uneasy with its weight,

Though not a breath should trouble it. Again,

The dimple in the cheek had better gone

With redder, fuller rounds: and somewhat large

The mouth was, though the milky little teeth

Dissolved it to so infantine a smile!

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[From Aurora Leigh.]
IN STRUGGLE.

ALAS, long suffering and most patient
God,

Thou need'st be surelier God to bear with us

Than even to have made us! thou aspire, aspire

From henceforth for me! thou who hast, thyself,

Endured this fleshhood, knowing how, as a soaked

And sucking vesture, it would drag us down

And choke us in the melancholy deep,

Sustain me, that, with thee, I walk these waves,

Resisting!-breathe me upward, thou for me

Aspiring, who art the Way, the
Truth, the Life, -
That no truth henceforth seem indif-
ferent,

No way to truth laborious, and no life,
Not even this life I live, intolerable!.

ROBERT BROWNING.

PROSPICE.

FEAR death? -to feel the fog in my throat,

The mist in my face,

When the snows begin, and the blasts denote

I am nearing the place, The power of the night, the press of the storm,

The post of the foe;

Where he stands, the Arch-Fear in a visible form,

Yet the strong man must go; Now the journey is done and the summit attained,

And the barriers fall,

Though a battle 's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,

The reward of it all.

I was ever a fighter, so,-one fight

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Once his love grown chill, Mine may strive, Bitterly we re-embrace, Single still.

Was it something said,
Something done,

Vexed him? was it touch of hand,
Turn of head?

Strange! that very way
Love begun.

I as little understand
Love's decay.

When I sewed or drew,
I recall

How he looked as if I sang - Sweetly too.

If I spoke a word,

First of all

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That was all I meant,

- To be just,

And the passion I had raised To content.

Since he chose to change

Gold for dust,

If I gave him what he praised, Was it strange?

Would he love me yet,

On and on,

While I found some way undreamed, -Paid my debt!

Give more life and more,

Till, all gone,

Sixteen years old when she died! Perhaps she had scarcely heard my

name,

It was not her time to love; beside, Her life had many a hope and aim, Duties enough and little cares,

And now was quiet, now astir, Till God's hand beckoned unawares, And the sweet white brow is all of her.

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope? What! your soul was pure and true; The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit, tire, and dew;

He should smile, "She never seemed And just because I was thrice as old,

Mine before.

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Grows belief!

Well, this cold clay clod

Was man's heart.

And our paths in the world diverged so wide,

Each was naught to each, must I be told?

We were fellow-mortals, - naught beside?

No, indeed! for God above

Is great to grant as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love;

I claim you still, for my own love's sake!

Delayed, it may be, for more lives

yet,

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few:

Crumble it, and what comes next? Much is to learn and much to forget

Is it God?

EVELYN hope.

BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead! Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed; She plucked that piece of geranium-flower,

Beginning to die too, in the glass. Little has yet been changed, I think,

The shutters are shut, no light may

pass

Save two long rays through the hinge's chink.

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I have lived, shall I say, so much since HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD

then,

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Kiss me as if you made believe

So

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As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh; 'Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Delhem a dome-spire sprang white,

And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"

"How they'll greet us!"- and all in a moment his roan

Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;

And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight

Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,

With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,

And with circles of red for his eye

sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,

Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,

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Wake

Cry,

| Still,

in a horror of heart-beats you

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