And even through faith of still averted feet, The bitter journey to the bourne so sweet COVENTRY PATMORE. "THE PITY OF IT.” OUR love may fail, Lily, If our love may fail, What will mere life avail, Lily, Seed that promised blossom, Withered in the mould, Pale petals overblowing, Failing from the gold! When the fervent fingers May the life that lingers Find repose, Lily, Find repose! Who may dream of all the music Only a lover hears, Hearken to hearts triumphant Bearing down the years? Ah! may eternal anthems dwindle To a low sound of tears? Room in all the ages For our love to grow- And now a few poor moments, Between life and death, May be proven all too ample For love's breath! Seed that promised blossom, I well believe the fault lay But I feel the shadow closing Cold about us two. An hour may yet be yielded us, Or a very little more; Then a few tears, and silence For evermore, Lily, For evermore ! HON, RODEN NOEL. AUF WIEDERSEHEN! HE little gate was reached at last, Half hid in lilacs down the lane; She pushed it wide, and, as she past, A watchful look she backward cast, With hand on latch, a vision white The lamp's dear gleam flits up the stair; I linger in delicious pain; Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air 'Tis thirteen years; once more I press |