I.

She hath but passed to heaven. As if from sleep,
Sleep soft and peaceful, she awoke to find
Earth with its pangs and tears all left behind;
Rose her freed spirit up the airy steep;
On steady wing, beyond where pale stars keep
Their watch o'er mortal griefs, she upward sped,
Not lonely, but by sister spirits led,
To that dear home where eyes do never weep:

Strange rapture thrilled her there; and straight her note

Next to even
the winter chrysanthemums —
fresh radish " .

Hidden 'mong the forest trees,
Chant thy liquid melodies,
Passionate nightingale!
Sing, till night's ten thousand eyes
Fade and fail,
Dim and pale,
As thou sang'st in Paradise
Long ago.
Sing in tender tremolo,
Soft and slow,
Sad and low.
Sing a deep adagio,
For my heart is full of woe,
And my eyes are full of tears
With the thought of bygone years.
Tremolo,
Sad and slow.

The man in the room next to mine
Has got the same complaint as I
When I wake in the night I hear him turning
And then he coughs
And I cough
And he coughs again —
This goes on for a long time —
Until I feel we are like two roosters
Calling to each other at false dawn
From far away hidden farms

I see my Lord, the pure, the meek, the lowly,
 Along the mournful way in sadness tread;
The thorns are on his brow, and He—the Holy,
 Bearing his cross, to Calvary is led!

Silent He moveth on, all uncomplaining,
 Though wearily his grief and burden press;
And foes—nor shame, nor pity now restraining—
 With scoff and jeering mock his deep distress.

'Tis hell's dark hour; yet calm himself resigning,
Even as a lamb that goeth to be slain;
The wine-press lone he treadeth unrepining,
 And falling blood-drops all his raiment stain.

This little seed of life and love,
Just lent us for a day,
Came like a blessing from above,—
Passed like a dream away.

And when we garnered in the earth
The foison that was ours,
We felt that burial was but birth
To spirits, as to flowers.

And still that benediction stays,
Although its angel passed:
Dear God! thy ways, if bitter ways,
We learn to love at last.

But for the dream,—it broke indeed,
Yet still great comfort gives:
What was a dream is now our creed,—
We know our darling lives.

Lo! it is day; the land lies warm in light;
The river ripples dreamily along
Thro' golden meadows, listening the song
Of happy birds that, with unweary flight,
Dart o'er a sky immaculately bright:
Thine arm is sinewy, thy heart is strong,
Thy life is affluent and free from wrong,
Why wish to see beyond that mist-clad height?

Because the day will not for ever last,
Nor will our winding way for ever lie
Thro' sunny pasturage—because the sky
May momently with clouds be overcast—
Because when all these leas and lands are past,

Think not of me amid the crowd
Where with her finery and her bells
The fashion of the world is loud,
And woman shows the charms she sells.

I would not have my image rise
Among those phantoms of the street,
That pirouette like a pack of flies
And idly as they came retreat.

Give them a glance and let them pass,
Forgot as they were born to be,
But in their multitudinous mass,
O lady! never mingle me.

Rather in life's lone hour, dear love!
And thy still chamber's inmost place,
Set in thy thought my bust above

Lilies lightly come in spring
Where they find best blossoming:
Edwin's grandchild! rosy-pale,
When these lilies of the vale
Warm their hearts in thy soft hand,
Thou shalt see their buds expand
As one after April snows
Sees blue violets' eyes unclose.

Mine be only winter flowers,
Nursed through many sunless hours
In her chamber, late who lay
Dying many a bitter day,
Counting every stroke of bell
All night long, till morning fell
On her spirit — like a cloud;
Some of these lay on her shroud.

Where climbs thy steep, fair Olivet,
There is a spot most dear to me:
The spot with tears of sorrow wet,
When Jesus knelt in agony.

I love in thought to linger there,
To tread the hallowed ground alone,
Where, on the silent midnight air,
Rose heavenward, Lord, thy plaintive moan.

I fondly seek the olive shade
That veiled thee when thy soul was wrung;
When angels came to bring thee aid,
That oft to thee their harps had strung!

There, on the sacred turf, I kneel,
And breathe my heart's deep love to thee,