ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. 1825-1864. A WOMAN'S QUESTIONING. I break all slighter bonds, nor feel Is there one link within the Past Or is thy faith as clear and free As that which I can pledge to thee? Does there within thy dimmest dreams Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe, If so, at any pain or cost, O tell me, before all is lost! Look deeper still! If thou canst feel Within thy inmost soul That thou hast kept a portion back, While I have staked the whole, Let no false pity spare the blow, Is there within thy heart a need Lives there within thy nature hid On all things new and strange ? Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day, And answer to my claim That Fate, and that to-day's mistake, Some soothe their conscience thus: but thou Nay! answer not! I dare not hear : LUCY LARCOM. 1826 SLEEP-SONG. Hush the homeless baby's crying, Tender Sleep! Every folded violet May the outer storm forget: Soothe the soul that lies thought-weary, Like a hidden brooklet's song, White and steep. Breathe thy balm upon the lonely, As the twilight breezes bless O'er the aged pour thy blessing, Like a soft and ripening rain O'er thy still seas met together, Hear them swell a drowsy hymning, Swans to silvery music swimming, Floating with unruffled feather O'er the deep! MORTIMER COLLINS. 1827-1876. SNOW AND SUN. Fast falls the snow, O Lady mine! Sprinkling the lawn with crystals fine : But, by the Gods, we won't repine, While we're together; We'll chat and rhyme and kiss and dine. Defying weather. So stir the fire, and pour the wine! 'Tis snow or sun or rain or shine, WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 1828 THE TOUCHSTONE. A man there came, whence none could tell, Quick birth of transformation smote Of heirloom jewels, prized so much, Crumbled beneath its touch. Then angrily the people cried— And since they could not so avail But though they slew him with the sword, And when, to stop all future harm, ARTHUR JOSEPH MUNBY. 1828 VIOLET. She stood where I had used to wait The moss that capp'd its granite ball, Were glossy with the morning rains. She stood amid such tearful gloom; Those peaches blooming to the South, Revived on trellis and on tree : Kisses that die not when the thrill But such as turn to use and fill The summer of our days with fruit. And she, impressing half the sole Of one small foot against the ground, She, whom I thought so still and shy, |