Fashioned her tenderly, Giving all weal to her ;— Girdle ye slenderly, Go to her, kneel to her,— "Saying, 'He sendeth us, He the most dutiful, Meetly he endeth us, Maiden most beautiful! Let us get rest of you, Sweet, in your breast ; Die, being prest of you, Die, being blest.' A SONG OF ANGIOLA IN HEAVEN. "Vale, unica!" LOWERS,-that have died upon my Sweet FLO Lulled by the rhythmic dancing beat Of her young bosom under you,— The Bird whose being no man knows- For lo, a garden-place I found, Well filled of leaves, and stilled of sound, And 'twixt the shining trunks would flit With faces bent and amorous ;- Alone she walked,-ah, well I wis, Then when I called to her her name,— The name, that like a pleasant thing Men's lips remember, murmuring, At once across the sward she came,— Full fain she seemed, my own dear maid, And asked ever as she came, "Where hast thou stayed?” "Where hast thou stayed?"-she asked as though The long years were an hour ago; But I spake not, nor answered, For, looking in her eyes, I saw, And in her clear cheek's changeless red, That in this place the Hours were dead, "This is well done," she said,—"in thee, O Love, that thou art come to me, For here all things are fair to us, "No formless Future blurs the sky; Men mourn not here, with dull dead eye, By shrouded shapes of Yesterday; At "Heaven" she ceased ;-and lifted up With rounded mouth, and eyes aglow; The lit leaves laughed,-sky shook, and lo, I swooned, and woke. And now, O Flowers, -Ye that indeed are dead, Now for all waiting hours, Well am I comforted; For of a surety, now, I see, That, without dim distress My Lady, verily, awaiteth me; For my dear Lady's sake Out from my pain a pillow, and to take And, in the holding of my dear Love's hand, |