I.

When wilt thou break, my stubborn heart!
O Death! how slow to take my part!
Whatever I pursue denies;
Death, Death itself, like Mira, flies.

II.

Love and Despair, like twins, possest
At the same fatal birth my breast:
No hope could be; her scorn was all
That to my destin'd lot could fall.

III.

I thought, alas! that Love could dwell
But in warm climes, where no snow fell;
Like plants that kindly heat require
To be maintain'd by constant fire.

IV.

That without hope 't would die as soon,

Mr. Alfred Beit
Screamed suddenly in the night.
When they asked him why
He made no reply.

See! my soul 's serene invader !
See the face , I first, ador'd!
Heaven, for love , and pity , made her,
And with angel 's graces, stor'd.

Mark her forehead 's aweful rising ,
See her soul-subduing eyes !
Every look , and air , surprizing!
Modest, lively, soft, and wise.

Next to you , I own, I love her,
But your sweet, discerning, eye,
Must not, now, be jealous of her:
She's ne'er seen , but you are by .

White, blue, and green,—the whirling train
Flies through the hills, across the plain.
The varied landscape rushes by,
With wood and snow and distant sky;
And still the powers that shift the scene
Dress it in white and blue and green.

No scarlet of the tropic zone,
No purple of imperial rule;
The days of storm and blood are gone,—
This world is calm, serene, and cool.
White earth, blue sky, and spread between
Forests of living evergreen.

Ride on forever thus, in sooth,
In snow-white innocence of youth,

You are not sorrowful, closed eyes, sad feet;
O drooping head, it is not sorrow.
Pale outstretched hands that have let all things go from you,
O outstretched hands receiving all things to you,
Dominion cannot be over you of our confusion,
O unrequiring, unresisting strength!

You have gone beyond sorrow,
You have gone beyond sorrow,
You have known the end of all longing,
All strife;
Not meekness is upon you, but submission
That of its own will has yielded its will.

Oh, take me into that abandon!

I took my sorrow into the forest—
Oh, do not hurt the forest with your sorrow!

I took my bitterness to the sea,
But the sea answered,
The brine of my own bitterness is bitter enough.

I could not reach into the sky's height and calm;
I was ashamed to lay my weeping on the bosom of the earth.

— A hog who had been an alderman —

For dainties I've had of them all,
At taverns, Lord Mayor's, and Guildhall,
Where the purveyors, nothing stingy,
To fill the wallet,
And pamper the palate,
Have rarities brought from India.

Then what signifies what one takes in,
For, when one's cram'd up to the chin,
Why, really, good friend to my thinking,
If on venison and wines,
Or on hogwash, one dines,
At last 'tis but eating and drinking.

Besides, I've no books I arrange,
Nor at two need I e'er go to change;

Dear Anna, hast ne'er heard it told
How florists have the curious power
To graft on some rude garden-plant
A tender and exquisite flower?
Thus are our natures made as one,
In union mystic and divine;
Thus, sweetest rose of womanhood,
Thy life is blooming into mine.

" Forget " thee! Whence the childish fear?
Ah, vain would be such heart-recalling!
Have I not felt thine angel smiles, —
Thy tears upon my bosom falling?
How oft, when, through our lattice stealing,
The moonlight came in quivering gleams,

I.

No passionless creature of duty,
No child of capricious delay,
Our love, like the goddess of beauty,
Sprang into warm life in a day!
Around us her magic spells flinging,
She smiled as she saw we adored,
And then, in a burst of wild singing,
Her soul's morning raptures outpoured.

Ah, soon changed that song, born in heaven,
To farewells and passionate sighs!
For a mist, like the shadow of even,

A rose once pressed against thy lips,
Then gayly flung to me,
Is all the gift I treasure up
In memory of thee;
It bringeth back that golden time,
Too beautiful to last,
The glad and love-lit past, Therese,
The glad and love-lit past!

Then comes the memory of the change
Which fell upon thy heart,
As falls the frost upon the rose
When summer suns depart;
And now returns that weary time
With doubts and glooms o'ercast,
The sad and mournful past, Therese,
The sad and mournful past!