As once I wept, if I could weep, Yet how much less it were to gain, The all of thine that cannot die Through dark and dread Eternity And more thy buried love endears EVELYN HOPE BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead! Lord Byron. Sit and watch by her side an hour. This is her book-shelf, this her bed; She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, Beginning to die too, in the glass; Little has yet been changed, I think: The shutters are shut, no light may pass Save two long rays through the hinge's chink. Sixteen years old when she died! Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name; It was not her time to love; beside, Her life had many a hope and aim, Duties enough and little cares, And now was quiet, now astir, Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope? And our paths in the world diverged so wide. No, indeed! for God above Is great to grant, as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love: I claim you still, for my own love's sake! Delayed it may be for more lives yet, Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few: Much is to learn, much to forget Ere the time be come for taking you. But the time will come,-at last it will, When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say) In the lower earth, in the years long still, That body and soul so pure and gay? Why your hair was amber, I shall divine, And your mouth of your own geranium's redAnd what you would do with me, in fine, In the new life come in the old one's stead. I have lived (I shall say) so much since then, Gained me the gains of various men, Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, I loved you, Evelyn, all the while! My heart seemed full as it could hold; There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. So, hush, I will give you this leaf to keep: See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand! There, that is our secret: go to sleep! You will wake, and remember, and understand. R. Browning. AGNES I SAW her in childhood- I saw her again— A fair girl of eighteen, Like moonlight she shone; The envy of many, The glory of one. Years, years fleeted over I stood at her foot: The blossom was fruit. A dignified mother, Her infant she bore; And look'd, I thought, fairer I saw her once more 'Twas the day that she died; O then, I felt, then She was fairest of all! H. F. Lyte. GLEN-ALMAIN, THE NARROW GLEN In this still place, remote from men, Where rocks were rudely heap'd, and rent As by a spirit turbulent; Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild, And everything unreconciled; In some complaining, dim retreat, Does then the Bard sleep here indeed? But something deeper far than these: Is of the grave; and of austere W. Wordsworth. O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done; The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring: But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, |