THE UNFORGOTTEN

"When Death to either shall come

WHEN Death to either shall come,

WHEN

I pray it be first to me,-

Be happy as ever at home,

If so, as I wish, it be.

Possess thy heart, my own;

And sing to the child on thy knee,

Or read to thyself alone

The songs that I made for thee.

,

ROBERT BRIdges.

Remembrance

OLD in the earth-and the deep snow piled above

COLD

thee,

Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!

Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,
Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover
Over the mountains, on that northern shore,

Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover
Thy noble heart for ever, ever more
?

Cold in the earth-and fifteen wild Decembers,
From those brown hills, have melted into spring:
Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers

After such years of change and suffering!

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,
While the world's tide is bearing me along;
Other desires and other hopes beset me,
Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

No later light has lightened up my heaven,
No second moon has ever shone for me;
All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,
And even Despair was powerless to destroy;
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.

Then did I check the tears of useless passion-
Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
Down to that tomb already more than mine.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,
Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain;
Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
How could I seek the empty world again?

EMILY BRONTË.

THE UNFORGOTTEN

The Last Memory

WHEN I am old, and think of the old days,

And warm my hands before a little blaze, Having forgotten love, hope, fear, desire, I shall see, smiling out of the pale fire, One face, mysterious and exquisite ; And I shall gaze, and ponder over it, Wondering, was it Leonardo wrought That stealthy ardency, where passionate thought Burns inward, a revealing flame, and glows To the last ecstacy, which is repose? Was it Bronzino, those Borghese eyes? And, musing thus among my memories, O unforgotten! you will come to seem, As pictures do, remembered, some old dream. And I shall think of you as something strange, And beautiful, and full of helpless change, Which I beheld and carried in my heart; But you, I loved, will have become a part Of the eternal mystery, and love Like a dim pain; and I shall bend above My little fire, and shiver, being cold,

When

you are no more young, and I am old.

ARTHUR SYMONS.

In the Valley of Cauteretz

ALL along the valley, stream that flashest white,

Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night,
All along the valley, where thy waters flow,
I walked with one I loved two-and-thirty years ago.
All along the valley while I walked to-day,

The two-and-thirty years were a mist that rolls away;
For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed

Thy living voice to me was as the voice of the dead,
And all along the valley, by rock and cave and tree,
The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

VERITATEM DILEXI