LIKE TO THE MOAN OF BURIED RIVERS. 185

And, as the other night, unbroken

And starless, hangs around,

Old words, half thought, old thoughts, half spoken, Pour in to swell the sound.

Though Death's dumb frost all else is hushing,

From that undying past,

The voice not lost, the stream still rushing,

Shall murmur to the last.

SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE.

LEAFLESS HOURS.

HE pale sun, through the spectral wood,
Gleams sparely, where I pass;
My footstep, silent as my mood,
Falls in the silent grass.

Only my shadow points before me,
Where I am moving now;
Only sad memories murmur o'er me

From every leafless bough:

And out of the nest of last year's Redbreast

Is stolen the very snow.

ROBERT, LORD LYTTON,

H roses for the flush of youth,

And laurel for the perfect prime;

But pluck an ivy branch for me
Grown old before my time.

Oh violets for the grave of youth,

And bay for those dead ere their prime; Give me the withered leaves I chose

Before in the old time.

CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

I.

OR me no roseate garlands twine,'

But wear them, Dearest, in my stead;

Time has a whiter hand than thine,

And lays it on my head.

II.

Enough to know thy place on earth.
Is there where roses latest die ;
To know the steps of youth and mirth
Are thine, that pass me by.

AUBREY DE VERE.

SIR HENRY TAYLOR.

BRING a garland for your head,

Of blossoms fresh and fair,

My own hands wound their white and red
To ring about your hair;

Here is a lily, here a rose,

A warm narcissus that scarce blows,
And fairer blossoms no man knows.

So crowned and chapleted with flowers,
I pray you be not proud;

For after brief and summer hours

Comes autumn with a shroud ;— Though fragrant as a flower you lie, You and your garland, by and by, Will fade and wither up and die!

EDMUND W. GOSSE.