Thy love thou sentest oft to me,
And still as oft I thrust it back;
Thy messengers I could not see
In those who everything did lack,
The poor, the outcast and the black.

Pride held his hand before mine eyes,
The world with flattery stuffed mine ears;
I looked to see a monarch's guise,
Nor dreamed thy love would knock for years,
Poor, naked, fettered, full of tears.

Yet, when I sent my love to thee,
Thou with a smile didst take it in,
And entertain'dst it royally,
Though grimed with earth, with hunger thin,

A timid grace sits trembling in her eye,
As loth to meet the rudeness of men's sight,
Yet shedding a delicious lunar light,
That steeps in kind oblivious ecstasy
The care-crazed mind, like some still melody:
Speaking most plain the thoughts which do possess
Her gentle sprite: peace, and meek quietness,
And innocent loves, and maiden purity:
A look whereof might heal the cruel smart
Of changed friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind;
Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart
Of him who hates his brethren of mankind.

" Speak, daughter, speak; art speaking now?"
" Seek, mother, seek; art seeking thou
Thy dear-loved Cora?" " Daughter sweet,
I bend unto the earth my ear
To catch the sound of coming feet;
I listen long, but only hear
The deep, dark waters running clear."
" Oh! my great mother, now the heat
Of thy strong heart in thickened beat
Hath reached thy Cora in her gloom,
Is't well with thee, my mother — tell?"
" Is't well with thee, my daughter?" " Well
Or ill I know not; I through fate
Queen of a wide unmeasured tomb

Oh, Man can seek the downward glance,
And each kind word — affection's spell —
Eye, voice, its value can enhance;
For eye may speak, and tongue can tell.

But Woman's love, it waits the while
To echo to another's tone,
To linger on another's smile,
Ere dare to answer with its own.

O, ONE I need to love me,
— And one to understand,
And one to soar above me,
— And one to clasp my hand,

And one to make me slumber,
— And one to bid me strive,
But seven's the sacred number
— That keeps the soul alive.

And first and last of seven,
— And all the world and more,
Is she I need in Heaven,
— And may not need before.

'T IS well to wake the theme of love
When chords of wild ecstatic fire
Fling from the harp, and amply prove
The soul as joyous as the lyre.

Such theme is blissful when the heart
Warms with the precious name we pour;
When our deep pulses glow and start
Before the idol we adore.

Sing ye, whose doating eyes behold,
Whose ears can drink the dear one's tone.
Whose hands may press, whose arms may fold,
The prized, the beautiful, thine own.

But, should the ardent hopes of youth
Have cherished dreams that darkly fled;

Kind, wise, and true as truth's own heart,
A soul that here
Chose and held fast the better part
And cast out fear,

Has left us ere we dreamed of death
For life so strong,
Clear as the sundawn's light and breath,
And sweet as song.

We see no more what here awhile
Shed light on men:
Has Landor seen that brave bright smile
Alive again?

If death and life and love be one
And hope no lie
And night no stronger than the sun,
These cannot die

The father-spirit whence her soul
Took strength, and gave

I LOVED her when she looked from me,
And hid her stifled sighs:
I loved her too when she did smile
With shy and downcast eyes,
The light within them rounding " like
The young moon in its rise. "

I loved her! — Dost thou love no more,
Now she from thee is flown,
To some far distant — distant shore,
Unfetter'd, and alone?
Peace, peace! I know her: She will come
Again, and be mine own.

The might of one fair face sublimes my love,
For it hath weaned my heart from low desires;
Nor death I need, nor purgatorial fires:
Thy beauty, antepast of joys above,
Instructs me in the bliss that saints approve;
For O, how good, how beautiful, must be
The God that made so good a thing as thee,
So fair an image of the heavenly Dove!
Forgive me if I cannot turn away
From those sweet eyes that are my earthly heaven,
For they are guiding stars, benignly given
To tempt my footsteps to the upward way;
And if I dwell too fondly in thy sight,

WRITTEN ON THE WIFE'S BIRTH-DAY .

LOVE .

In tears, addressing the Husband and the Wife .

 W AS ever Infant so deceiv'd?
'Tis what I could n't have believ'd.

HUSBAND .

Can you , my dear, the cause explain,
Why Cupid should of us complain?

WIFE .

Alas!—not I—what he requires,
He does not ask —but he inspires .