Is there within thy heart a need

That mine cannot fulfil?
One chord that any other hand

Could better wake or still?
Speak now,—lest at some future day

My whole life wither and decay.

Lives there within thy nature hid
The demon-spirit Change,

Shedding a passing glory still
On all things new and strange?

It may not be thy fault alone,—
But shield my heart against thy

Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day

And answer to my claim, That fate, and that to-day's mistake,

Not thou,— had been to blame? Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou

Wilt surely warn and save me now.

Nay, answer not,— I dare not hear, The words would come too late;

Yet I would spare thee all remorse, So, comfort thee, my fate,—

Whatever on my heart may fall,— Remember, I would risk it all!


Nothing resting in its own completeness

Can have worth or beauty: but alone Because it leads and tends to farther

sweetness. Fuller, higher, deeper than its own.

Spring's real glory dwells not in the

meaning, Gracious though it be, of her blue


But is hidden in her tender leaning To the summer's richer wealth of flowers.

Dawn is fair, because the mists fade slowly

Into day, which floods the world with light;

Twilight's mystery is so sweet and holy

Just because it ends in starry night.

Childhood's smiles unconscious

graces borrow From strife, that in a far-off future


And angel glances (veiled now by

life's sorrow) Draw our hearts to some beloved


Life is only bright when it proceedeth Towards a truer, deeper life above; Human love is sweetest when it leadeth

To a more divine and perfect love.

Learn the mystery of progression duly:

Do not call each glorious change, decay;

But know we only hold our treasures truly,

When it seems as if they passed away.

Nor dare to blame God's gifts for incompleteness;

In that want their beauty lies: they roll

Towards some infinite depth of love

and sweetness, Bearing onward man's reluctant



Strive: yet I do not promise

The prize you dream of to-day Will not fade when you think to grasp it,

And melt in your hand away; But another and holier treasure,

You would now perchance disdain, Will come when your toil is over,

And pay you for all your pain.

Wait; yet I do not tell you

The hour you long for now Will not come with its radiance vanished,

And a shadow upon its brow;

Yet far through the misty future,
With a crown of starry light,

An hour of joy you know not
Is winging her silent flight.

Pray; though the gift you ask for
May never comfort your fears,

May never repay your pleading,
Yet pray, and with hopeful

An answer, not that you long for,
But diviner, will come one day;

Your eyes are too dim to see it,
Yet strive, and wait, and pray.

Bryan Waller Procter (barry Cornwall).


We are born; we laugh; we weep;

We love; we droop; we die! Ah! wherefore do we laugh or weep?

Why do we live or die? Who knows that secret deep?

Alas, not I!

Why doth the violet spring

Unseen by human eye?
Why do the radiant seasons bring

Sweet thoughts that quickly fly? Why do our fond hearts cling

To things that die?

We toil — through pain and wrong;

We fight —and fly; We love; we lose; and then, ere long,

Stone-dead we lie.
O Life! is all thy song!

"Endure and —die?"


Touch Us gently, Time!

Let us glide adown thy stream Gently — as we sometimes glide

Through a quiet dream! Humble voyagers are we. Husband, wife, and children three — (One is lost — an angel, fled To the azure overhead!)

Touch us gently, Time!

We've not proud nor soaring wings; Our ambition, our content,

Lies in simple things.

Humble voyagers are we,
O'er life's dim unsounded sea,
Seeking only some calm clime;
Touch us gently, gentle Time!


Love me if I live!

Love me if I die!
What to me is life or death,

So that thou be nigh?

Once I loved thee rich,
Now I love thee poor;

Ah! what is there I could not
For thy sake endure?

Kiss me for my love!

Pay me for my pain! Come! and murmur in my ear

How thou lov'st again!


The sea! the sea! the open sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth's wide regions

It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;

Or like a cradled creature lies.

I'm on the sea! I'monthesea!
I am where I would ever be;
With the blue above, and the blue

And silence wheresoe'erl go;

If a storm should come and awake the deep,

What matter? I shall ride and sleep.

I love, oh, how I love to ride
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,
When every mad wave drowns the

Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the sou'west blasts do blow.

I never was on the dull, tame shore, But I loved the great sea more and more,

And backward flew to her billowy breast, [nest; Like a bird that seeketh its mother's And a mother she was, and is, to me; For I was bor n on the open sea!

The waves were white, and red the morn,

In the noisy hour when I was born;

And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,

And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; [wild

And never was heard such an outcry

As welcomed to life the ocean child!

I've lived since then, in calm and strife.

Full fifty summers, a sailor's life, With wealth to spend and a power to range,

But never have sought nor sighed for change;

And Death, whenever he comes to me, Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea!


Day dawned:—within a curtained room,

Filled to faintness with perfume,
A lady lay at point of doom.

Day closed; — a child had seen the light;

But, for the lady fair and bright,
She rested in undreaming night.

Spring rose; the lady's grave was green;

And near it, oftentimes, was seen A gentle boy with thoughtful mien.

Years fled; — he wore a manly face, And struggled in the world's rough race,

And won at last a lofty place.

And then he died! Behold before ye Humanity's poor sum and story; Life, — Death, — and all that is of glory.


Send down Thy winged angel, God!

Amid this night so wild; And bid him come where now we watch,

And breathe upon our child!

She lies upon her pillow, pale,
And moans within her sleep,

Or wakeneth with a patient smile,
And striveth not to weep.

How gentle and how good a child

She is, we know too well,
And dearer to her parents' hearts

Than our weak words can tell.

We love — we watch throughout the night,

To aid, when need may be; We hope — and have despaired, at times;

But now we turn to Thee!

Send down Thy sweet-souled angel, God!

Amid the darkness wild; And bid him soothe our souls to-night. And heal our gentle child!


How many summers, love,

Have I been thine?
How many days, thou dove,

Hast thou been mine?

Time, like the winged wind
When 't bends the flowers,

Hath left no mark behind,
To count the hoursI

Some weight of thought, though loath,

On thee he leaves;
Some lines of care round both

Perhaps he weaves;
Some fears, — a soft regret

For joys scarce known; Sweet looks we half forget; —

All else is flown 1

Ah! — With what thankless heart

I mourn and sing!
Look, where our children start,

Like sudden spring!
With tongues all sweet and low

Like pleasant rhyme,
They tell how much I owe

To thee and time!


Softly woo away her breath,

Gentle death! . Let her leave thee with no strife, Tender, mournful, murmuring life! She hath seen her happy day, — She hath had her bud and blossom;

Now she pales and shrinks away,
Earth, into thy gentle bosom!

She hath done her bidding here,

Angels dear!
Bear her perfect soul above,

Seraph of the skies, — sweet

Good she was, and fair in youth;

And her mind was seen to soar,
And her heart was wed to truth:

Take her, then, forevermore,—
Forever — evermore, —


I Die for thy sweet love! The ground
Not panteth so for summer rain,

As I for one soft look of thine;
And yet,— I sigh in vain!

A hundred men are near thee now; Each one, perhaps, surpassing me;

But who doth feel a thousandth part Of what I feel for thee?

They look on thee, as men will look, Who round the wild world laugh and rove;

I only think how sweet 'twould be
To die for thy sweet love!

Edna Dean Proctor.


Now summer finds her perfect prime! Sweet blows the wind from western calms; On every bower red roses climb; The meadows sleep in mingled balms.

Nor stream, nor bank the wayside by, But lilies float and daisies throng,

Nor space of blue and sunny sky That is not cleft with soaring song.

O flowery morns, O tuneful eyes,

Fly swift! my soul ye cannot fill! Bring the ripe fruit, the garnered


The drifting snows on plain and hill.

Alike to me, fall frosts and dews; But Heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose!

Warm hands to-day are clasped in


Fond hearts my mirth or mourning share:

And, over hope's horizon line,
The future dawns, serenely fair;

Yet still, though fervent vow denies,
I know the rapture will not stay:

Some wind of grief or doubt will rise

And turn my rosy sky to gray. I shall awake, in rainy morn, To find my heart left lone and drear;

Thus, half in sadness, half in scorn,

I let my life burn on as clear Though friends grow cold or fond

love woes ; But Heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose!

In golden hours, the angel Peace
Comes down and broods me with
her wings:
I gain from sorrow sweet release;

I mate me with divinest things; When shapes of guilt and gloom arise

And far the radiant angel flees, — My song is lost in mournful sighs,

My wine of triumph left but lees, In vain for me her pinions shine,

And pure, celestial days begin: Earth's passion-flowers I still must twine,

Nor braid one beauteous lily in.
Ah! is it good or ill I choose?
But Heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose I

So wait I. Every day that dies
With flush and fragrance born of

I know shall more resplendent rise Where summer needs nor sun nor moon,

And every bud on love's low tree, Whose mocking crimson flames and falls,

In fullest flower I yet shall see
High blooming by the jasper walls.

Nay, every sin that dims my days, And wild regrets that veil the sun,

Shall fade before those dazzling rays,

And my long glory be begun! Let the years come to bless or bruise; Thy heaven, O Lord, I shall not lose!


Of all the streams that seek the sea
By mountain pass, or sunny lea.
Now where is one that dares to vie
With clear Contoocook, swift and

Monadnock's child, of snow-drifts born,

The snows of many a winter morn,
And many a midnight dark and still,
Heaped higher, whiter, day by day,
To melt, at last, with suns of May,
And steal in tiny fall and rill,
Down the long slopes of granite gray:
Or.filter slow through seam and cleft,
When frost and storm the rock have

To bubble cool in sheltered springs Where the lone red-bird dips his wings,

And the tired fox that gains its brink Stoops, safe from hound and horn, to drink.

And rills and springs, grown broad

and deep, Unite through gorge and glen to


In roaring brooks that turn and take
The over-floods of pool and lake,
Till, to the fields, the hills deliver
Contoocook's bright and brimming
river 1

O have you seen, from Hillsboro' town

How fast its tide goes hurrying down. With rapids now, and now a leap Past giant boulders, black and steep, Plunged in mid water, fain to keep Its current from the meadows green? But, flecked with foam, it speeds along;

And not the birch trees' silvery sheen, Nor the soft lull of whispering pines, Nor hermit thrushes, fluting low, Nor ferns, nor cardinal flowers that glow

Where clematis, the fairy, twines, Can stay its course, or still its song; Ceaseless it flows till, round its bed, The vales of Henniker are spread, Their banks all set with golden grain, Or stately trees whose vistas gleam — A double forest in the stream;

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