When I am old, and my good days are o'er,
And life and love are less than dreams of dreams,
And my soul sits within the burnt-out core
Of its own ghost, and God Himself but seems:

When, child, you speak, and I know not your name,
And look up dazed, and wonder who you are,
And care no longer if you praise or blame,
Or whether 'twixt us two 'tis peace or war:

Have patience with the unremembering eyes,
Which once their love-thirst from your own did slake;
Think how this heart once thought it Paradise
To burn itself to ashes for your sake!

They bad farewell; but neither spoke of love.
The railway bore him off with rapid pace,
He gazed awhile on Edith's garden grove,
Till alien woodlands overlapp'd the place—
Alas! he cried, how mutely did we part!
I fear'd to test the truth I seem'd to see
Oh! that the love dream in her timid heart
Had sigh'd itself awake, and called for me!
I could have answer'd with a ready mouth,
And told a sweeter dream; but each forebore.
He saw the hedgerows fleeting to the north
On either side, whilst he look'd sadly forth:
Then set himself to face the vacant south,

Thy ring!—ah! that is sad in human life,
That friends forget;—not even part in strife,
Nor shun each other with suspicious eye,
But grudge such little pains as to deny
The fairest flower of life what every weed,
The vilest, sickens when compelled to need.
They see how time cuts deeper year by year,
When soul to soul grows not more near and dear;
Already Love's ripe sheaves their gold display,
And yet they let love starve and pine away;
Heedless they see the bright links fall apart;
And thus does heart forget to cherish heart;

It matters not its history—Love has wings,
Like lightning, swift and fatal; and it springs,
Like a wild flower, where it is least expected;
Existing, whether cherished or rejected.

A mystery art thou!—thou mighty one!
We speak thy name in beauty; yet we shun
To say thou art our guest; for who will own
His life thy empire, and his heart thy throne?

Glory to God on high;
Forever bless his name;
Let earth, and seas, and sky,
His wondrous love proclaim.
To him be praise and glory giv'n,
By all on earth and all in heav'n.

O is it Love or is it Fame,
This thing for which I sigh?
Or has it then no earthly name
For men to call it by?

I know not what can ease my pains,
Nor what it is I wish;
The passion at my heart-strings strains
Like a tiger in a leash.

'T IS not your beauty can engage
—My wary heart;
The sun, in all his pride and rage,
—Has not that art;
And yet he shines as bright as you,
If brightness could our souls subdue.

'Tis not the pretty things you say,
—Nor those you write,
Which can make Thyrsis' heart your prey:
—For that delight,
The graces of a well-taught mind,
In some of our own sex we find.

No, Flavia, 'tis your love I fear;
—Love's surest darts,
Those which so seldom fail him, are
—Headed with hearts:
Their very shadows make us yield;

Beneath love's heavy weight my falt'ring soul
Plods, like the packman, o'er life's dusty road.
Oh! that some friendly hand would find a pole
To ease my shoulders of their grievous load!

That eyes which pierced our inmost being through;
That lips which pressed into a single kiss,
It seemed, a whole eternity of bliss;
That cheeks which mantled with love's rosy hue;
That feet which wanted nothing else to do
But run upon love's errands, this and this;
That hands so fair they had not seemed amiss
Reached down by angels through the deeps of blue;—
That all of these so deep in earth should lie
While season after season passeth by;
That things which are so sacred and so sweet
The hungry roots of tree and plant should eat!

I saw a cloud at break of day
On the Wind's high shoulders borne;
It looked like a meteor's dazzling ray,
In the azure vault forlorn:
I marvelled how a cloud so strange,
Should on Aurora's summit range.

I gazed until it rose above
The light of my quivering eye;
It journeyed to those realms of love,
Where the sun rolls blazing by:
It moved not as clouds are wont to do,
But swift to those mansions of bliss it flew.

I knew not what it then conveyed,
As it sped on its arrow-wing;
But, ah! it bore my Mary's shade,