Come, Death! and match thy quiet gloom With being's darkling strife, Come, set beside the lonely Tomb, The Solitude of Life ; And henceforth none who see can fear Thy hour, which some will crave, Who feel their hearts, while beating here, RICHARD, LORD HOUGHTON. NOT TO BE. HE rose said, "Let but this long rain be past, And I shall feel my sweetness in the sun, And pour its fulness into life at last; But when the rain was done, But when dawn sparkled through unclouded air, She was not there. The lark said, "Let but winter be away, And blossoms come, and light, and I will soar, And lose the earth, and be the voice of day;" But when the snows were o'er, But when spring broke in blueness overhead, And myriad roses made the garden glow, And skylarks carolled all the summer longWhat lack of birds to sing and flowers to blow? Yet, ah, lost scent, lost song! Poor empty rose, poor lark that never trilled! Dead unfulfilled! AUGUSTA WEBSTER. 00 soon so fair, fair lilies; The folded bud has still To-morrows at its will, Blown flowers can never blow again. Too soon so bright, bright noontide ; The sun that now is high Will henceforth only sink Towards the western brink; Day that's at prime begins to die. Too soon so rich, ripe summer, For autumn tracks thee fast; Lo, death-marks on the leaf! Sweet summer, and my grief; For summer come is summer past. Too soon, too soon, lost summer; Some hours and thou art o'er. Ah! death is part of birth : Summer leaves not the earth But last year's summer lives no more. AUGUSTA WEBSTER. NOTHING LOST. HERE are last year's snows, Or the glorious note Or the love they bore Or the faiths men knew The snows are sweet spring rain, The dead rose blooms again, Young voices keep the strain. |