H

DEPARTURE.

T was not like your great and gracious ways!

Do you, that have naught other to lament,
Never, my Love, repent

Of how, that July afternoon,

You went,

With sudden, unintelligible phrase,
And frighten'd eye,

Upon your journey of so many days,
Without a single kiss or a good-bye?

I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon;
And so we sate, within the low sun's rays,

You whispering to me, for your voice was weak,
Your harrowing praise.

Well, it was well, my Wife,

To hear you such things speak,

And see your love

Make of your eyes a growing gloom of life,
As a warm South wind sombres a March grove.
And it was like your great and gracious ways
To turn your talk on daily things, my Dear,

Lifting the luminous, pathetic lash

To let the laughter flash,

Whilst I drew near,

Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely hear.

But all at once to leave me at the last,

More at the wonder than the loss aghast,
With huddled, unintelligible phrase,

And frighten'd eye,

And go your journey of all days

With not one kiss or a good-bye,

And the only loveless look the look with which you pass'd,

'Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways.

COVENTRY PATMORE.

BEFORE SEDAN.

ERE, in this leafy place,
Quiet he lies,

Cold, with his sightless face.

Turned to the skies;

'Tis but another dead;

All you can say is said.

Carry his body hence,

Kings must have slaves;

Kings climb to eminence

Over men's graves :

So this man's eye is dim ;—
Throw the earth over him.

What was the white you touched,

There, at his side?

Paper his hand had clutched

Tight e'er he died ;—

Message or wish, may be ;

Smooth the folds out and see.

Hardly the worst of us

Here could have smiled!—

Only the tremulous

Words of a child ;—

Prattle, that has for stops

Just a few ruddy drops.

Look. She is sad to miss,

Morning and night,

His-her dead father's—kiss ;

Tries to be bright,

Good to mamma, and sweet.

That is all.

"Marguerite."

Ah, if beside the dead

Slumbered the pain!

Ah, if the hearts that bled
Slept with the slain !

If the grief died;-But no ;

Death will not have it so.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

BAIRN, when I am dead,

How shall ye keep frae harm?
What hand shall gie ye bread?

What fire will keep ye warm?

How shall ye dwell on earth awa' frae me ?”"O Mither, dinna dee!”

"O bairn, by night or day

I hear nae sounds ava',

But voices of winds that blaw, And the voices of ghaists that say,

'Come awa! come awa!'

The Lord that made the wind, and made the sea,

Is sore on my son and me,

And I melt in His breath like snaw."

"O Mither, dinna dee!"