ET not our lips pronounce the word Farewell
To those we cherish ;-if one needs must part,
On hope's illusion let the fancy dwell,

Nor deem that distance can make cold the

heart!

Though I should look through sorrow's dim eclipse, And print warm partings on the loved one's lips— To speak the last sad word my tongue were dumb; Or, if it syllabled my soul's emotion,

'Twould be to tell how pilgrim steps have come To worship at the shrine of love's devotion!

So be the language of despair unspoken

By those whose hearts, nor time, nor space can sever— A fountain seal'd till hope be lost for ever,

And only gushing when the heart is broken.

JAMES HEDDERWICK.

WOULD not have this perfect love of ours
Grow from a single root, a single stem,
Bearing no goodly fruit, but only flowers
That idly hide life's iron diadem:

It should grow alway like that eastern tree

Whose limbs take root and spread forth constantly; That love for one, from which there doth not spring Wide love for all, is but a worthless thing.

Not in another world, as poets prate,

Dwell we apart above the tide of things,

High floating o'er earth's clouds our faëry wings:
But our pure love doth ever elevate
Into a holy bond of brotherhood

All earthly things, making them pure and good.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

UR love is not a fading, earthly flower:

Its winged seed dropped down from Paradise, And, nursed by day and night, by sun and shower,

Doth momently to fresher beauty rise:

To us the leafless autumn is not bare,
Nor winter's rattling boughs lack lusty green.
Our summer hearts make summer's fulness, where
No leaf, or bud, or blossom may be seen:
For nature's life in love's deep life doth lie,
Love,-whose forgetfulness is beauty's death,
Whose mystic key these cells of Thou and I
Into the infinite freedom openeth,

And makes the body's dark and narrow grate
The wide-flung leaves of Heaven's palace-gate.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

AFTER DEATH.

HE curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept
And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may
Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,

Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.
He leaned above me, thinking that I slept

And could not hear him; but I heard him say:
"Poor child, poor child!" and as he turned away
Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.
He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold
That hid my face, or take my hand in his,

Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:

He did not love me living; but once dead He pitied me; and very sweet it is

To know he still is warm, though I am cold.

CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

LOVE, TIME, AND DEATH.

3H me, dread friends of mine,-Love, Time, and Death:

Sweet Love, who came to me on sheeny wing, And gave her to my arms-her lips, her breath, And all her golden ringlets clustering:

And Time, who gathers in the flying years,

He gave me all, but where is all he gave?
He took my love and left me barren tears,
Weary and lone I follow to the grave.
There Death will end this vision half divine,
Wan Death, who waits in shadow evermore,
And silent, ere he gave the sudden sign;

Oh, gently lead me thro' thy narrow door,
Thou gentle Death, thou trustiest friend of mine-
Ah me, for Love-will Death my love restore?

FREDERICK LOCKER.