Make me fair when I lie dead on my bed,
Fair where I am lying;

Perhaps he may come and look upon me dead-
He for whom I am dying.

Dig my grave for two, with a stone to show it,
And on the stone write my name;

If he never comes, I shall never know it,
But sleep on all the same.

CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

A SMILE AND A SIGH.

SMILE because the nights are short!

And every morning brings such pleasure Of sweet love-making, harmless sport : Love that makes and finds its treasure, Love, treasure without measure.

A sigh because the days are long!

Long, long these days that pass in sighing,

A burden saddens every song:

While time lags which should be flying,
We live who would be dying.

CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

PF ever, dear,

I might at last the barren victory gain,
After long struggle and laborious pain,
And many a secret tear,

To think, since think I must of thee,

Not otherwise than thou of me.

Haply I might

Thy chilling coldness, thy disdain, thy pride, Which draw me half reluctant to thy side,

With a like meed requite,

And I my too fond self despise,

Seeing with disenchanted eyes.

But now, alas,

So fast a prisoner am I to thy love,

No power there is that can my chains remove,

So sweet the caged hours pass,

That if it parted me from thee,
I would not willingly grow free.

Nor would I dare

To ask for recompense of love again,
Who love thee for the height of thy disdain.
Thou wouldst not show so fair

If we should burn with equal fire,
Instinct with emulous desire.

Full well I know

That what I worship is not wholly thee,
But a fair dream, a pious fantasy,
Such as at times doth grow

On yearnings of the cloistered mind,
Or the rapt vision of the blind.

Scorn me then, sweet,

I would not thou shouldst leave thy lofty place ; Thy lover should not see thee face to face,

But prostrate at thy feet.

No recompense, no equal part I seek,

Only that thou be strong and I be weak.

LEWIS MORRIS.

A LOVE-THOUGHT.

3LL down the linden-alley's morning shade Thy form with childly raptures I pursue;

A

No hazel-bowered brook can seek the glade With steps more joyous or with course more true.

But when all haste and hope I reach my goal,
And Thou at once thy full and earnest eyes
Turnest upon me, my encumbered soul
Bows down in shame and trembles with surprise.

I rise exalted on thy moving grace,
Peace and goodwill in all thy voice I hear;
Yet if the sudden wonders of thy face
Fall on me, joy is weak and turns to fear.

RICHARD, LORD HOUGHTON.