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Yes, still he's fixed, and sleeping !
This silence too the while, Its very hush and creeping Seem whispering us a smile ;
Something divine and dim
Seems going by one's ear, Like parting wings of cherubim,
“ We've finished here."
From out a balmy bosom
Our bud of beauty grew ; It fed on smiles for sunshine,
On tears for daintier dew : Aye nestling warm and tenderly,
Our leaves of love were curled So close and close about our wee
White Rose of all the world.
With mystical faint fragrance
Our house of life she filled ; Revealed each hour some fairy tower
Where wingéd hopes might build ! We saw — though none like us might see —
Such precious promise pearled Upon the petals of our wée
White Rose of all the world.
But, evermore the halo
Of angel-light increased,
That folds some fairy feast.
Our darling bud up-curled,
White Rose of all the world.
O, THOSE little, those little blue shoes !
O the price were high
That those shoes would buy,
That, by God's good will,
Years since, grew still,
With a tearful pleasure,
That little dear treasure,
And blue eyes she sees
Look up from her knees
A little sweet face
That's a gleam in the place, With its little gold curls of hair. Then O wonder not that her heart From all else would rather part
Than those tiny blue shoes
That no little feet use, And whose sight makes such fond tears start !
WILLIAM C. BENNETT.
Our Rose was but in blossom,
Our life was but in spring, When down the solemn midnight
We heard the spirits sing, “ Another bud of infancy
With holy dews impearled !' And in their hands they bore our wee
White Rose of all the world.
You scarce could think so small a thing
Could leave a loss so large ; Her little light such shadow fling
From dawn to sunset's marge. In other springs our life may be
In bannered bloom unfurled, But never, never match our wee White Rose of all the world.
PICTURES OF MEMORY.
OUR WEE WHITE ROSE.
All in our marriage garden
Grew, smiling up to God, A bonnier flower than ever
Suckt the green warmth of the sod ; O beautiful unfathomably
Its little life unfurled ; And crown of all things was our wee
White Rose of all the world.
Among the beautiful pictures
That hang on Memory's wall Is one of a dim old forest,
That seemeth best of all ; Not for its gnarled oaks olden,
Dark with the mistletoe ; Not for the violets golden
That sprinkle the vale below ;
Not for the milk-white lilies
That lean from the fragrant ledge, Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
And stealing their golden edge ; Not for the vines on the upland,
Where the bright red berries rest, Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip,
It seemeth to me the best.
This name, whoever chance to call
Perhaps your smile may win. Nay, do not smile! mine eyelids fall Over mine eyes, and feel withal
The sudden tears within.
Is there a leaf that greenly grows
Where summer meadows bloom, But gathereth the winter snows, And changeth to the hue of those,
If lasting till they come ?
Is there a word, or jest, or game,
But time encrusteth round With sad associate thoughts the same ? And so to me my very naine
Assumes a mournful sound.
I once had a little brother,
With eyes that were dark and deep; In the lap of that old dim forest
He lieth in peace asleep : Light as the down of the thistle,
Free as the winds that blow, We roved there the beautiful summers,
The summers of long ago ; But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And, one of the autumn eves, I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves. Sweetly his pale arms folded
My neck in a meek embrace, As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face ; And when the arrows of sunset
Lodyed in the tree-tops bright, He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light. Therefore, of all the pictures
That hang on Memory's wall, The one of the dim old forest Seemeth the best of all.
My brother gave that name to me
When we were children twain, When names acquired baptismally Were hard to utter, as to see
That life had any pain.
No shade was on us then, save one
Of chestnuts from the hill, And through the word our laugh did run As part thereof. The mirth being done,
He calls me by it still.
Nay, do not smile ! I hear in it
What none of you can hear, The talk upon the willow seat, The bird and wind that did repeat
Around, our human cheer.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
Earth saddens, never shall remove,
Where once we dweltour name is heard no more; Affections purely given ;
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And e'en that mortal grief shall prove And where the gardener Robin, day by day, The immortality of love,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bawble coach, and wrapped
Short-lived possession ! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced OUT OF NORFOLK, THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM.
A thousand other themes, less deeply traced : O that those lips had language ! Life has passed | Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, With me but roughly since I heard thee last. That thou mightst know me safeand warmly laid ; Those lips are thine, thy own sweet smile I see, Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; The biscuit, or confectionery plum ; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed “Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and
glowed, The meek intelligence of those dear eyes All this, and, more endearing still than all, (Blest be the art that can immortalize,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks To quench it!) here shines on me still the same. That humor interposed too often makes ;
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear ! All this, still legible in memory's page,
Such honors to thee as my numbers may,
Perhaps a frail meniorial, but sincere, But gladly, as the precept were her ownl; Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. And, while that face renews my filial grief, Could time, his flight reversed, restore the Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
hours Shall steep me in Elysian revery,
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowA momentary dream that thou art she.
ers, My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, The violet, the pink, the jessamine, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? I pricked them into paper with a pin, Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, (And thou wast happier than myself the while Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss; smile,) Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — Could those few pleasant days again appear, Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers - Yes. Might one wish bring them, would I wish them I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day ;
here? I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away ; I would not trust my heart, the dear delight And, turning from my nursery window, drew Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu !
what here we call our life is such, But was it such?- It was. – Where thou art gone So little to be loved, and thou so much, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown ; That I should ill requite thee to constrain May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. The parting word shall pass my lips no more. Thou - as a gallant bark, from Albion's coast, Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, (The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed,) Oft gave me promise of thy quick return; Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, What ardently I wished I long believed, Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile; And, disappointed still, was still deceived, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show By expectation every day beguiled,
Her beauteous form reflected clear below, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
While airs impregnated with incense play Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Around her, fanning light her streamers gay, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow's spent, So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached the I learned at last submission to my lot ;
shore But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. “Where tempests never beat nor billows roar";
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn,
Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn !
In their dark hour o' anguish the heartless shall From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.
I REMEMBER, I remember -
The house where I was born, And, while the wings of fancy still are free,
The little window where the sun And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Came peeping in at morn. Time has but half succeeded in his theft,
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day;
Had borne my breath away!
I remember, I remember (An Inverary correspondent writes: “Thom gave me the fol.
The roses, red and white, lowing narrative as to the origin of 'The Mitherless Bairn'; I
The violets, and the lily-cups, quote his own words. When I was livin' in Aberdeen, I was limping roun' the house to my garret, when I heard the greetin' o' Those flowers made of light !
A lassie was thumpin' a bairn, when out cam a big dame, bellowin' * Ye hussie, will ye lick a mitherless bairn!" I
The lilacs where the robin built, hobled up the stair and wrote the sang asore sleepin.' "]
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday, –
The tree is living yet !
I remember, I remember 'T is the puir doited loonie, — the mitherless
Where I was used to swing, bairn!
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing; The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed;
My spirit flew in feathers then, Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare
That is so heavy now, head; His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow! An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn.
WILLIAM COW PER.
Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there,
I remember, I remember
The fir-trees dark and high ;
Were close against the sky.
But now 't is little joy
Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly rocked bed
THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST.
LITTLE Ellie sits alone
By a stream-side on the grass,
And the trees are showering down Doubles of their leaves in shadow,
On her shining hair and face.
She has thrown her bonnet by, And her feet she has been dipping
In the shallow water's flow.
Now she holds them nakedly In her hands all sleek and dripping,
While she rocketh to and fro.
Little Ellie sits alone,
Fills the silence like a speech,
While she thinks what shall be done, And the sweetest pleasure chooses
For her future within reach.
Little Ellie in her smile Chooses ...“I will have a lover,
Riding on a steed of steeds!
He shall love me without guile, And to him I will discover
The swan's nest among the reeds.
“And the steed shall be red-roan, And the lover shall be noble,
With an eye that takes the breath.
And the lute he plays upon Shall strike ladies into trouble,
As his sword strikes men to death.
“And the steed it shall be shod All in silver, housed in azure,
And the mane shall swim the wind ;
And the hoofs along the sod Shall flash onward and keep measure,
Till the shepherds look behind.
in my face.
When he gazes
He will say, 'O Love, thine eyes Build the shrine my soul abides in,
And I kneel here for thy grace.'
“Then, ay then - he shall kneel low, With the red-roan steed anear him,
Which shall seem to understand
Till I answer, 'Rise and go !
Whom I gift with heart and hand.'
“Then he will arise so pale, I shall feel my own lips tremble
With a yes I must not say ;
Nathless maiden-brave, “Farewell' I will utter, and dissemble ; —
*Light to-morrow with to-day.'
X. “Then he'll ride among the hills To the wide world past the river,
There to put away all wrong;
To make straight distorted wills, And to empty the broad quiver
Which the wicked bear along.
“Three times shall a young foot-page Swim the stream and climb the mountain
And kneel down beside my feet ;
‘Lo, my master sends this gage, Lady, for thy pity's counting !
What wilt thou exchange for it?'
“And the first time, I will send A white rosebud for a guerdon,
And the second time, a glove ;
But the third time, I may bend From my pride, and answer, ‘Pardon,
If he comes to take my love.'
“Then the young foot-page will run, Then my lover will ride faster,
Till he kneeleth at my knee :
I am a duke's eldest son ! Thousand serfs do call me master,
But, O Love, I love but thee !''
“But my lover will not prize All the glory that he rides in,