Upon an everlasting tide

Into the silent seas we go;
But verdure laughs along the side,
And roses on the margin blow.

Nor life, nor death, nor aught they hold,
Rate thou above their natural height;
Yet learn that all our eyes behold,

Has value, if we mete it right.

Pluck then the flowers that line the stream,
Instead of fighting with its power;

But pluck as flowers, not gems, nor deem
That they will bloom beyond their hour.

Whate'er betides, from day to day,
An even pulse and spirit keep;
And, like a child, worn out with play,
When wearied with existence, sleep.

SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE.

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.

CXXXIII.

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.