When fell the night, upsprung the breeze,
And all the darkling hours they plied,
Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas
By each was cleaving, side by side:

E'en so-but why the tale reveal

Of those, whom, year by year unchanged, Brief absence joined anew to feel,

Astounded, soul from soul estranged.

At dead of night their sails were filled
And onward each rejoicing steered-
Ah, neither blame, for neither willed,

Or wist, what first with dawn appeared!

To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,
Brave barks! In light, in darkness too,
Through winds and tides one compass guides—
To that, and your own selves, be true.

But O blithe breeze! and O great seas!
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past,
On your wide plain they join again,
Together lead them home at last.

One port, methought, alike they sought,
One purpose hold where'er they fare,-
O bounding breeze, O rushing seas!
At last, at last, unite them there!

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

A SUPERSCRIPTION.

LOOK in my face; my name is Might-have-been;

I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell; Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell

Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between ;
Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen
Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my spell
Is now a shaken shadow intolerable,

Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen.

Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart
One moment through thy soul the soft surprise
Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs,-
Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart
Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart
Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes.

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.

A SONG AGAINST SINGING.

TO E. J H.

THEY bid me sing to thee,

Thou golden-haired and silver-voicèd

child

With lips by no worse sigh than sleep's defiled-With eyes unknowing how tears dim the sight, And feet all trembling at the new delight Treaders of earth to be!

Ah no! the lark may bring

A song to thee from out the morning cloud,
The merry river from its lilies bowed,

The brisk rain from the trees, the lucky wind
That half doth make its music, half doth find-
But I-I may not sing.

How could I think it right,

New-comer on our earth as, Sweet, thou art,
To bring a verse from out an human heart
Made heavy with accumulated tears,
And cross with such amount of weary years
Thy day-sum of delight?

Even if the verse were said,

Thou, who wouldst clap thy tiny hands to hear
The wind or rain, gay bird or river clear,
Wouldst, at that sound of sad humanities,
Upturn thy bright uncomprehending eyes
And bid me play instead.

Therefore no song of mine

But prayer in place of singing: prayer that would
Commend thee to the new-creating God
Whose gift is childhood's heart without its stain
Of weakness, ignorance, and changing vain-
That gift of God be thine!

So wilt thou aye be young,

In lovelier childhood than thy shining brow
And pretty winning accents make thee now:

Yea, sweeter than this scarce articulate sound (How sweet!) of 'Father,' 'Mother,' shall be found The 'ABBA' on thy tongue.

And so, as years shall chase

Each other's shadows, thou wilt less resemble
Thy fellows of the earth who toil and tremble,
Than him thou seest not, thine angel bold
Yet meek, whose ever-lifted eyes behold
The Ever-loving's face.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

TWO SONNETS.

THE HAPPY HEARTS OF EARTH.

WHENCE

THENCE thou hast come thou knowest not, little Brook,

Nor whither thou art bound. Yet, wild and gay, Pleased in thyself, and pleasing all that look,

Thou wendest, all the seasons, on thy way. The lonely glen grows gladsome with thy play; Thou glidest lamb-like thro' the ghostly shade; To think of solemn things thou wast not made, But to sing on, for pleasure, night and day. Such happy hearts are wandering, crystal clear, In the great world where men and women dwell; Earth's mighty shows they neither love nor fear; They are content to be, while I rebel, Out of their own delight dispensing cheer, And ever softly whispering, 'All is well!'

FATHER, FORGIVE THY CHILD.

O SING, clear brook, sing on, while in a dream
I feel the sweetness of the years go by!
The crags and peaks are softened now, and seem
Gently to sleep against the gentle sky;

Old scenes and faces glimmer up and die,
With outlines of sweet thought obscured too long;
Like boys that shout at play far voices cry:
O sing! for I am weeping at the song.

I know not what I am, but only know

I have had glimpses tongue may never speak; No more I balance human joy and woe,

But think of my transgressions and am meek.
Father! forgive the child, who fretted so,—

His proud heart yields,—the tears are on his cheek!
ROBERT BUCHANAN.

VESTIGIA RETRORSUM.

WHITE-THROATED swans and sedges of the

mere

Still float, still quiver, on the shining stream;
And underneath an antique bridge I hear
Smooth waters lapping slowly, and their gleam
Frets the cold dark wherein my boat is moored :
Nor overhead the storied elms of June
Forget to murmur, nor to welcome noon
With quiet save when some stray breeze, allured
By fragrance of the central avenue,