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To some 'tis given to walk awhile

In Love's unshaded noon,

But clouds are gathering while they smile,

And night is coming soon!

Most happy he whose journey lies

Beneath the starlight sheen

Of unregretful memories

Of glory that has been.

We live together years and years,

And leave unsounded still

Each other's springs of hopes and fears,

Each other's depths of will:

We live together day by day,

And some chance look or tone

Lights up with instantaneous ray
An inner world unknown.

Then wonder not that they who love

The longest and the best,

Are parted by some sudden move

Of passion or unrest :

Nor marvel that the wise and good

Should oft apart remain,

Nor dare, when once misunderstood,
To sympathise again.

Come, Death! and match thy quiet gloom

With being's darkling strife,

Come, set beside the lonely Tomb,

The Solitude of Life ;

And henceforth none who see can fear

Thy hour, which some will crave,

Who feel their hearts, while beating here,
Already in the grave.

RICHARD, LORD HOUGHTON.

NOT TO BE.

HE rose said, "Let but this long rain be past,
And I shall feel my sweetness in the sun,
And pour its fulness into life at låst;"
But when the rain was done,

But when dawn sparkled through unclouded air,
She was not there.

The lark said, "Let but winter be away,

And blossoms come, and light, and I will soar, And lose the earth, and be the voice of day;" But when the snows were o'er,

But when spring broke in blueness overhead,
The lark was dead.

And myriad roses made the garden glow,

And skylarks carolled all the summer longWhat lack of birds to sing and flowers to blow? Yet, ah, lost scent, lost song!

Poor empty rose, poor lark that never trilled!

Dead unfulfilled!

AUGUSTA WEBSTER.
M

POO soon so fair, fair lilies;
To bloom is then to wane ;

The folded bud has still

To-morrows at its will,

Blown flowers can never blow again.

Too soon so bright, bright noontide;

The sun that now is high

Will henceforth only sink
Towards the western brink;

Day that's at prime begins to die.

Too soon so rich, ripe summer,

For autumn tracks thee fast;

Lo, death-marks on the leaf!
Sweet summer, and my grief;

For summer come is summer past.

Too soon, too soon, lost summer; Some hours and thou art o'er.

Ah! death is part of birth:

Summer leaves not the earth

But last year's summer lives no more.

AUGUSTA WEBSTER.

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