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TWO.

(From the Portuguese.)

How does a woman love? Once, no more, Though life forever its loss deplore; Deep in sorrow or deep in sin, One king reigneth her heart within. One alone, by night and day, Moves her spirit to curse or pray. One voice only can call her soul Back from the grasp of death's control; Though loves beset her, or friends deride, Yea, when she smileth another's bride, Still for her master her life makes moan, Once is forever, and once alone.

III. The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear; And foating about the under-sky, Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear; But anon her awful jubilant voice, With a music strange and manifold, Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold; As when a mighty people rejoice With shawms and with cymbals, and harps of gold, And the tumult of their acclaim is rollid Thro' the open gates of the city afar, To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds, And the willow-branches hoar and dank, And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds, And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank, And the silvery marish-flowers that throng The desolate creeks and pools among, Were flooded over with eddying song.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

1

How does a man love? Once for all.
The sweetest voices of life may call,
Sorrow daunt him, or death dismay,
Joy's red roses bedeck his way;
Fortune smile, or jest, or frown,
The cruel thumb of the world turn down,
Loss betray him, or love delight,
Through storm or sunshine, by day or night,
Wandering, toiling, asleep, awake,
Though souls may madden, or weak hearts break,
Better than wife, or child, or pelf,
Once and forever, he loves — himself.

Rose TERRY COOKE.

RIPE WHEAT.

We bent to-day o'er a coffined form,

And our tears fell softly down; We looked our last on the aged face, With its look of peace, its patient grace,

And hair like a silver crown.

THE DYING SWAN.

I. The plain was grassy, wild and bare, Wide, wild, and open to the air, Which had built up everywhere

An under-roof of doleful gray.
With an inner voice the river ran,
Adown it floated a dying swan,

And loudly did lament.
It was the middle of the day.
Ever the weary wind went on,

And took the reed-tops as it went.

We touched our own to the clay-cold hands,

From life's long labor at rest; And among the blossoms white and sweet, We noted a bunch of golden wheat,

Clasped close to the silent breast.

The blossoms whispered of fadeless bloom,

Of a land where fall no tears; The ripe wheat told of toil and care, The patient waiting, the trusting prayer,

The garnered good of the years.

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We knew not what work her hands had found,

What rugged places at her feet; What cross was hers, what blackness of night; We saw but the peace, the blossoms white,

And the bunch of ripened wheat.

As each goes up from the field of earth,

Bearing the treasures of life, God looks for some gathered grain of good,

From the ripe harvest that shining stood,

But waiting the reaper's knife.

Then labor well, that in death you go

Not only with blossoms sweet,Not bent with doubt and burdened with fears, And dead, dry husks of the wasted years, But laden with golden wheat.

ELIZA O. PEIRSON.

THE WORLD WOULD BE THE BETTER

FOR IT.

IF men cared less for wealth and fame, .

And less for battle-fields and glory,
If writ in human hearts a name

Seemed better than in song or story;
If men instead of nursing pride
Would learn to hate it and abhor it,

If more relied

On Love to guide,
The world would be the better for it.

If men dealt less in stocks and lands,

And more in bonds and deeds fraternal, If Love's work had more willing hands

To link this world with the supernal; If men stored up Love's oil and wine And on bruised human hearts would pour it,

If “yours" and “mine"

Would once combine,
The world would be the better for it.

If more would act the play of Life,

And fewer spoil it in rehearsal; If Bigotry would sheath its knife,

Till good became more universal; If Custom, gray with ages grown, Had fewer blind men to adore it,

If Talent shone

In Truth alone, The world would be the better for it.

If men were wise in little things

Affecting less in all their dealings; If hearts had fewer rusted strings

To isolate their kindred feelings; If men, when Wrong beats down the Right, Would strike together to restore it, -

If Right made Might

In every fight,
The world would be the better for it.

M. H. COBB.

HELEN OF TROY.

LONG years ago he bore to a land beyond the sea, To a city fair and stately, that renowned must

ever be Through all ages yet to follow, for the light shed

there by me.

I am Helen; where is Troy?

They have told me not a roof-tree nor a wall is

standing now, That o'erthrown is the great altar, where ten

thousand once did bow, While on high to Aphrodite rose the solemn hymn

and vow.

I am Helen; where is Troy?

Do they deem thus the story of my life will pass

away? Troy betrayed, and all who loved me slain upon

that fatal day, Shall but make the memory of me evermore with

men to stay.

I am Helen; where is Troy?

Fools! to dream that time can ever make the tale

of Troy grow old; Buried now is every hero, and the grass green o'er

the mold. But of her they fought and died for, every age

shall yet be told.
I am Helen; where is Troy?

FLORENCE PEACOCK.

AFTER THE FALL OF TROY.

Troy has fallen; and never will be
War like the war that was waged for me.
Could I but have those ten years back again
With the love, and the glory, the pleasure like pain,
The clash of arms, and the din of the fight,
The feasting and music, the color and light;
Yet, mixed with it all, there sounded to nie

Ever a moan from the far-off sea.

There still remains this for all time to be:
The war of the world was fought for me.
Give them no pity who died for me there,
Men can never more die for a face so fair.
And what does it matter that now they lie,
Quiet and silent beneath the sky ?
Remember that none evermore can be
Back for those years in Troy with me.

FLORENCE PEACOCK.

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IO. “I wish that he were come to me,

For he will come," she said. “Have I not prayed in Heaven ?-on earth,

Lord, Lord, has he not prayed ?
Are not two prayers a perfect strength ?

And shall I feel afraid?"

II.

Never the time and the place

And the loved one all together! This path - how soft to pace!

This May - what magic weather.

12. All passes.

Art alone Enduring stays to us; The Bust out-lasts the throne,

The Coin, Tiberius.

3. Life's but a means unto an end; that end Beginning, mean, and end of all things,— God. The dead have all the glory of the world.

4.
Remorseless Time!
Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe — what power
Can stay him in his silent course, or melt
His iron heart with pity!

5.
“ In men whom men condemn as ill
I find so much of goodness still, -
In men whom men pronounced divine

I find so much of sin and blot,
I hesitate to draw a line
Between the two where God does not.”

6.
Thus much, no more we know;

He bade what is be so,
Bade light be and bade night be, one by one;

Bade hope and fear, bade ill

And good redeem and kill,
Till all men be aweary of the sun

And this world burn in its own flame
And bear no witness longer of his name.

7.
Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep!
He, like the world, his ready visit pays
Where fortune smiles, the wretched he forsakes:
Swift on his downy pinions flies from woe,
And lights on lids unsullied with a tear.

8. Hast thou named all the birds without a gun ? Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk ?

13.

O God! make free
This barren shackled earth, so deadly cold

Breathe gently forth thy spring, till winter flies In rude amazement, fearful and yet bold,

While she performs her 'customed charities; I weigh the loaded hours till life is bare,O God, for one clear day, a snowdrop, and

sweet air!

14. O Fame! on thy pillar so steady, Some dupes watch beneath thee in vain: How many have done it already! How many will do it again.

15. If wrong you do, if false you play,

In summer among the flowers, You must atone, you shall repay,

In winter among the showers.

16.
It is the little rift within the lute,
That by and by will make the music mute,
And ever widening slowly silence all.

17. O ye tears! O ye tears! I am thankful that ye run; Though ye trickle in the darkness, ye shall glitter

in the sun; The rainbow cannot shine if the rain refuse to

fall, And the eyes that cannot weep are the saddest eyes of all.

18. Ye sow the air's barren desert with your tongues, And reap confusion and revolt of friends.

19. Death have we hated, knowing not what it meant; Life have we loved, through green leaf and through

sere, Though still the less we knew of its intent: The Earth and Heaven through countless year on

year,
Slow changing, were to us but curtains fair,
Hung round about a little room, where play
Weeping and laughter of man's empty day.

Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,

Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea.

26. Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are living preachers,

Each cup a pulpit and each leaf a book,
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers,
From loneliest nook.

27.
Better trust all and be deceived,

And weep that trust and that deceiving,
Than doubt one heart that if believed

Had bless'd one's life with true believing.
Oh, in this mocking world too fast

The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth;
Better be cheated to the last

Than lose the blessed hope of truth.

28. Come live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That valleys, groves, or hill, or field, Or woods and steepy mountains yield.

20.

But the beating of my own heart,

Was all the sound I heard.

29. She stood breast-high amid the corn, Clasp'd by the golden light of morn; Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had wa

21.

“ Traveller, what lies over the hill ?

Traveller tell to me:
Tiptoe-high on the window-sill

Over I cannot see."

30. I loved thee, beautiful and kind

And plighted an eternal vow; So alter'd are thy face and mind,

'T were perjury to love thee now.

22.

One sells his soul; another squanders it;
The first buys up the world, the second starves.

23.
Still to fools the feeting pleasure
Buys the lasting pain.

24. See! what a treasure rare I hold with fingers aglow!

-'T is full of the bright

Subdued sunlight
Which shone in the scented hair
Of a maiden I once held fair;

And I puzzle my brains to know
If the heart of the beautiful girl

Hath kept the light of the Long Ago, As long as the yellow curl?

31. To-day, in my ride, I've been crowning

The beacon; its magic still lures; For up there you discoursed about Browning,

That stupid old Browning of yours.
His vogue and his verse are alarming,

I'm anxious to give him his due;
But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming
A poet as you.

32. Wish no word unspoken, want no look away! What if words were but mistake, and looks - too

sudden, say! Be unjust for once, Love! Bear it — well I may! Do me justice always ? Bid my heart - their

shrineTender back its store of gifts, old looks and words

of thine - Oh, so all unjust — the less deserved, the more

divine ?

25. Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,

As the swift seasons roll!
Leave the low-vaulted past;

33. October turned my maple's leaves to gold; The most are gone now; here and there one

lingers: Soon these will slip from out the twigs' weak hold,

Like coins between a dying miser's fingers.

43. I thought of Chatterton, the marvelous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride.

44. We never can overdo the luck that can never be.

34. When I was young there seemed to be No pleasure in the world for me; My fellows found it everywhere, Was none so poor but had his share -

They took mine, too!

45. God who takes, like God who gives, Is God the same All glory to his name! So if he gives or if he takes It still is for our sakes.

46.

35. Time was and is, and ever yet shall be. He sets his royal seal on all we see.

Where'er we go his record we must take, When in the light of full eternity Where days and years are lost, our souls awake.

36. " Farewell!" I thought, it is the earth's one speech:

All human voices the sad chorus swell: Though mighty love to heaven's high gate may

reach, Yet must he say, " Farewell!"

There is but one
Love-story in this withered world, forsooth;
And it is brief, and ends, where it began

( What if I tell, in play, the dreary truth ?),
With something we call Youth.

47.
She leans to man - but just to hear
The praise he whispers in her ear,
Herself, not him, she holdeth dear.

48.
Honor no second place for truth can keep.

49.
Our earliest longings prophecy the man,

Our fullest wisdom still enfolds the child; And in my life I trace that larger plan Whereby at last all things are reconciled.

50. Fair are the flowers and the children, but their

subtle suggestion is fairer; Rare is the rose-burst of dawn, but the secret that

clasps it is rarer; Sweet the exultance of song, but the strain that

precedes it is sweeter; And never was poem yet writ, but the meaning

outmastered the metre.

37. Only a woman knows a woman's need.

38. Depend upon it, my snobbish friend, Your family thread you can't ascend Without good reason to apprehend, You'll find it waxed at the farther end

By some plebeian vocation! Or, worse than that, your boasted line May end in a loop of stronger twine

That plagued some worthy relation!

39. Thus it is all over the earth;

That which we call the fairest, And prize for its surpassing worth,

Is always rarest.

40. A flower on the highway-side. Enjoy its grace; But turn not from thy road, nor slacken pace!

51. As dyed in blood, the streaming vines appear,

While long and low the wind about them grieves; The heart of Autumn must have broken here, And poured its treasures out upon the leaves.

52. Oh sweet it is when hope's white arms are wreathing

Necks bowed with sorrow, as they droop forlorn!
But ah! the imperishable pathos breathing
About those dead whom we no longer mourn!

53.
We are the music makers,

And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,

And sitting by desolate streams;

41.

The past is Past; survey its course no more; Henceforth our glasses sweep the further shore.

42.

A comedy so warm, So pitiful, that, let those laugh who can, I weep.

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