Sonnet

WHEN I have fears that I may cease to be

Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain, Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,

Hold like rich garners the full-ripened grain ; When I behold, upon the night's starred face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace

Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; And when I feel, fair creature of an hour, That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the faery power

Of unreflecting love;-then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

JOHN KEATS.

Lovesight

HEN do I see thee most, beloved one?

WHEN

When in the light the spirits of mine eyes

Before thy face, their altar, solemnize

The worship of that Love through thee made known?
Or when in the dusk hours, (we two alone,)
Close-kissed and eloquent of still replies
Thy twilight-hidden glimmering visage lies,
soul only sees thy soul its own ?

And

my

LOVESIGHT

O love, my love! if I no more should see
Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee,
Nor image of thine eyes in any spring,-
How then should sound upon Life's darkening slope
The ground-whirl of the perished leaves of Hope,
The wind of Death's imperishable wing?

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.

A Serenade at the Villa

THAT

HAT was I, you heard last night
When there rose no moon at all,
Nor, to pierce the strained and tight

Tent of heaven, a planet small :
Life was dead, and so was light.

Not a twinkle from the fly,

Not a glimmer from the worm;
When the crickets stopped their cry,
When the owls forbore a term,
You heard music; that was I.

Earth turned in her sleep with pain,
Sultrily suspired for proof:

In at heaven and out again,

Lightning !—where it broke the roof,
Bloodlike, some few drops of rain.

What they could my words expressed,
O my love, my all, my one!

Singing helped the verses best,

And when singing's best was done,
To my lute I left the rest.

So wore night; the East was gray,
White the broad-faced hemlock-flowers
There would be another day ;

Ere its first of heavy hours
Found me, I had passed away.

What became of all the hopes,
Words and song and lute as well?
Say, this struck you—' When life gropes
Feebly for the path where fell

Light last on the evening slopes,

'One friend in that path shall be, To secure my steps from wrong; One to count night day for me,

Patient through the watches long,
Serving most with none to see.'

Never say as something bodes—
'So, the worst has yet a worse!
When life halts 'neath double loads,
Better the task-master's curse

Than such music on the roads!

'When no moon succeeds the sun,

Nor can pierce the midnight's tent

Any star, the smallest one,

While some drops, where lightning went,

Show the final storm begun―

'When the fire-fly hides its spot,
When the garden-voices fail
In the darkness thick and hot,-

Shall another voice avail,

That shape be where these are not?

A SERENADE AT THE VILLA

'Has some plague a longer lease,
Proffering its help uncouth?
Can't one even die in peace?

As one shuts one's eyes on youth,
Is that face the last one sees?'

Oh, how dark your villa was,
Windows fast and obdurate!
How the garden grudged me grass
Where I stood—the iron gate
Ground its teeth to let me pass !

ROBERT BROWNING.

The Visionary

ILENT is the house: all are laid asleep:

SILENT

One alone looks out o'er the snow-wreaths deep,

Watching every cloud, dreading every breeze

That whirls the wildering drift, and bends the groaning

trees.

Cheerful is the hearth, soft the matted floor;

Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or door;
The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot strong and far:
I trim it well, to be the wanderer's guiding-star.

Frown, my haughty sire! chide, my angry dame;
Set your slaves to spy; threaten me with shame ;
But neither sire nor dame, nor prying serf shall know,
What angel nightly tracks that waste of frozen snow.

What I love shall come like visitant of air,
Safe in secret power from lurking human snare;
What loves me, no word of mine shall e'er betray;
Though for faith unstained my life must forfeit pay.

Burn, then, little lamp; glimmer straight and clear—
Hush a rustling wing stirs, methinks, the air:
He for whom I wait, thus ever comes to me;

Strange Power! I trust thy might; trust thou my constancy!

EMILY BRONTË.

6

STILL let my tyrants know, I am not doomed to wear
Year after year in gloom, and desolate despair;

A messenger of Hope comes every night to me,
And offers for short life, eternal liberty.

'He comes with western winds, with evening's wandering airs,

With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest

stars.

Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire,

And visions rise, and change, that kill me with desire.

'Desire for nothing known in my maturer years,
When joy grew mad with awe, at counting future tears,
When, if my spirit's sky was full of flashes warm,
I knew not whence they came, from sun or thunderstorm.

'But, first, a hush of peace-a soundless calm descends;
The struggle of distress and fierce impatience ends;
Mute music soothes my breast-unuttered harmony,
That I could never dream, till Earth was lost to me.