There is an earthly glimmer in the Tomb:
And, healed in their own tears and with long sleep,
My eyes unclose and feel no need to weep;
But, in the corner of the narrow room,
Behold Love's spirit standeth, with the bloom
That things made deathless by Death's self may keep.
O what a change! for now his looks are deep,
And a long patient smile he can assume:
While Memory, in some soft low monotone,
Is pouring like an oil into mine ear
The tale of a most short and hollow bliss,
That I once throbbed indeed to call my own,

Have you not forgotten me?
How could I forget you,
My dear love, my true love, my own sweet heart?
Life brings many changes,
And women's hearts are fickle,
And time brings other lovers to lovers torn apart.

Soon you'll have forgotten me
How could I forget you,
When, day and night, I'm longing to be lying at your side?
Life brings many changes;
And I might forget you, living —
But how could I forget you, now that you have died!

IN PRAISE OF MISS ISABELLA JOHNSTON, AFTERWARDS MRS. LAWS OF SPRINGWELL, THE POET'S COUSIN .

I gave my love a chain of gold
Around her neck to bind;
She keeps me in a faster hold,
And captivates my mind.

Methinks that mine's the harder part:
Whilst, 'neath her lovely chin,
She carries links outside her heart,
My fetters are within.

I had a heart that doted once in passion's boundless pain,
And though the tyrant I abjured I could not break his chain;
But now that Fancy's fire is quenched, and ne'er can burn anew,
I've bid to Love for all my life adieu! adieu! adieu!

I've known, if ever mortal knew, the spells of Beauty's thrall,
And, if my song has told them not, my soul has felt them all;
But Passion robs my peace no more, and Beauty's witching sway
Is now to me a star that's fallen — a dream that's passed away.

Hail! welcome tide of life, when no tumultuous billows roll;

His heart was tinder to the torch of love;
And tossed its challenge of tempestuous fire
To the cold stars—that still burn on above
The ash of his desire.

I GAVE her a rose in early June,
Fed with the sun and the dew,
Each petal I said is a note in the tune,
The rose is the whole tune through and through,
The tune is the whole red-hearted rose,
Flush and form, honey and hue,
Lull with the cadence and throb to the close,
I love you, I love you, I love you.

She gave me a rose in early June,
Fed with the sun and the dew,
Each petal she said is a mount in the moon,
The rose is the whole moon through and through,
The moon is the whole pale-hearted rose,

O NO , my heart can never be
Again in lighted hopes the same —
The love that lingers there for thee
Has more of ashes than of flame.

Still deem not but that I am yet
As much as ever all thine own;
Though now the seal of love be set
On a heart chilled almost to stone.

And can you marvel? only look
On all that heart has had to bear —
On all that it has yet to brook,
And wonder then at its despair.

Oh, Love is destiny, and mine
Has long been struggled with in vain —
Victim or votary, at thy shrine

Love, we were young once, and ran races
over rough ground in our best shiny shoes,
we kicked at stones, we fell over, pulled faces.

Our knees were filthy with our secret places,
with rituals and ranks, with strategy and ruse.
Love, we were young once and ran races

to determine the most rudimentary of graces
such as strength and speed and the ability to bruise.
We kicked at stones, we fell over, pulled faces,

and doing so left no permanent traces
because we fought and fell only to confuse
love. We were young. Once we ran races

I hate the Spring in parti-coloured vest,
What time she breathes upon the opening rose,
When every vale in cheerfulness is dressed,
And man with grateful admiration glows.
Still may he glow, and love the sprightly scene,
Who ne'er has felt the iron hand of Care;
But what avails to me a sky serene,
Whose mind is torn with Anguish and Despair?
Give me the Winter's desolating reign,
The gloomy sky in which no star is found;
Howl, ye wild winds, across the desert plain;
Ye waters roar, ye falling woods resound!

While summer roses all their glory yield
To crown the votary of love and joy,
Misfortune's victim hails, with many a sigh,
Thee, scarlet Poppy of the pathless field,
Gaudy, yet wild and lone; no leaf to shield
Thy flaccid vest that, as the gale blows high,
Flaps, and alternate folds around thy head.
So stands in the long grass a love-crazed maid,
Smiling aghast; while stream to every wind
Her garish ribbons, smeared with dust and rain;
But brain-sick visions cheat her tortured mind,
And bring false peace. Thus, lulling grief and pain,