Now hermit-like is lonely,
Now gallant-like is gay.

Slay Love, he is not broken;
Wound him, his hurt will heal.
More than his lips have spoken
His cunning eyes reveal.
His sighs the still air sweeten,
As primrose woods do May;
His locks are pale, as wheaten
Fields in the wan moon-ray.

His palm is always tender,
His eyes are rainy grey;
His wage-return is slender,
For Love gives all away.

His aspect, as he muses,

Is paler than the dead;

He weeps more when he loses,

Than he laughs when he is fed.

Love at a touch will falter,

Love at a nod will stay;

But armies cannot alter

One hairbreadth of his way.

He trembles at a rose-leaf,

And rushes on a spear;

A thorn-prick and he shows grief, But Death he cannot fear.

The tyrant may not quench him,
He laughs at prison bars;
The water-floods may drench him,
The fire may give him scars.

Though thou lay chain and fetter
On ankle, wrist, and hands,
He will not serve thee better,
But soar to unknown lands.

He follows shadow faces

Into graveyards unawares ; He reaps in sterile places,

And brings home sheaves of tares.

One tear will heal his anger;

He will wait and watch all day;

He scoffs at toil and danger,
His last crust gives away.

He will strip off his raiment
To make his dear one gay;
And will laugh at any payment,
Having given all away.

When care his heart engages,

And his rose-leaf gathers grey, He will claim a kiss for wages, And demand a smile for pay.

HON. JOHN LEICESTER WARREN.

SWEET LOVE IS DEAD.

WEET Love is dead :

Where shall we bury him?

In a green bed,

With no stone at his head,

And no tears nor prayers to worry him.

Do you think he will sleep

Dreamless and quiet?

Yes, if we keep

Silence, nor weep

O'er the grave where the ground-worms riot.

By his tomb let us part;

But hark! he is waking;

He hath winged a dart,

And the mock-cold heart

With the woe of want is aching.

Feign we no more

Sweet Love lies breathless;

All we forswore

Be as before!

Death may die, but Love is deathless.

ALFRED AUSTIN.

LOVE'S VOTARY.

THERS have pleasantness and praise, And wealth; and hand and glove They walk with worship all their days, But I have only Love.

And therefore if Love be a fire,

Then he shall burn me up;
If Love be water out of mire,
Then I will be the cup.

If Love come worn with wayfaring,
My breast shall be his bed;

If he come faint and hungering,
My heart shall be his bread.

If Love delight in vassalage,
Then I will be his thrall,
Till, when I end my pilgrimage,
Love give me all for all.

GEORGE AUGUSTUS SIMCOX.

DESTINY.

OMEWHERE there waiteth in this world of

ours

For one lone soul another lonely soul,

Each chasing each through all the weary hours,

And meeting strangely at one sudden goal.

Then blend they, like green leaves with golden flowers, Into one beautiful and perfect whole;

And life's long night is ended, and the way

Lies open onward to eternal day.

EDWIN ARNOLD.