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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,
Already in the grave.

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,

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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,
The lark was dead.

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.
M

00 soon so fair, fair lilies;
To bloom is then to wane ;

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,
Where the summer's rose,
Who is there who knows?

Or the glorious note
Of some singer's throat
Heard in years remote ?

Or the love they bore
Who, in days of yore,
Loved, but are no more?

Or the faiths men knew
When, before mind grew,
All strange things seemed true?

The snows are sweet spring rain, The dead rose blooms again, Young voices keep the strain.

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