ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. 1825-1864.

A WOMAN'S QUESTIONING.
Before I trust my fate to thee,
Or place my hand in thine,
Before I let thy Future give
Colour and form to mine,
Before I peril all for thee,
Question thy soul to-night for me!

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel
A shadow of regret :

Is there one link within the Past
That holds thy spirit yet?

Or is thy faith as clear and free

As that which I can pledge to thee?

Does there within thy dimmest dreams
A possible future shine

Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe,
Untouch'd, unshared by mine?

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,
But in true mercy tell me so!

Is there within thy heart a need
That mine can not fulfil,
One cord that any other hand
Could better wake, or still?
Speak now, lest at some future day
My whole life wither and decay!

Lives there within thy nature hid
The demon spirit-Change,
Shedding a passing glory still

On all things new and strange ?
It may not be thy fault alone :
But shield my heart against thy own!

Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day,

And answer to my claim

That Fate, and that to-day's mistake,
Not thou, had been to blame?

Some soothe their conscience thus: but thou
Wilt surely warn and save me now.

Nay! answer not! I dare not hear :
The words would come too late.
Yet I would spare thee all remorse :
So comfort thee, my Fate!
Whatever on my heart may fall,
Remember-I would risk it all.

LUCY LARCOM.

1826

SLEEP-SONG.

Hush the homeless baby's crying,

Tender Sleep!

Every folded violet

May the outer storm forget:
Those wet lids with kisses drying,
Through them creep!

Soothe the soul that lies thought-weary,
Murmurous Sleep!

Like a hidden brooklet's song,
Rippling gorgeous woods among,
Tinkling down the mountains dreary,

White and steep.

Breathe thy balm upon the lonely,
Gentle Sleep!

As the twilight breezes bless
With sweet scents the wilderness,
Ah, let warm white dove-wings only
Round them sweep!

O'er the aged pour thy blessing,
Holy Sleep!

Like a soft and ripening rain
Falling on the yellow grain,
For the glare of suns oppressing,
Pitying weep!

O'er thy still seas met together,
Charmed Sleep!

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!
And let those sea-green eyes divine
Pour their love-madness into mine!
I don't care whether

'Tis snow or sun or rain or shine,
If we're together.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

1828

THE TOUCHSTONE.

A man there came, whence none could tell,
Bearing a Touchstone in his hand;
And tested all things in the land
By its unerring spell.

Quick birth of transformation smote
The fair to foul, the foul to fair;
Purple nor ermine did he spare,
Nor scorn the dusty coat.

Of heirloom jewels, prized so much,
Were many changed to chips and clods;
And even statues of the Gods

Crumbled beneath its touch.

Then angrily the people cried—
"The loss outweighs the profit far:
Our goods suffice us as they are,—
We will not have them tried."

And since they could not so avail
To check his unrelenting quest,
They seized him, saying—“ Let him test
How real is our jail!"

But though they slew him with the sword,
And in a fire his Touchstone burn'd,
Its doings could not be o'erturn'd,
Its undoings restored.

And when, to stop all future harm,
They strew'd its ashes on the breeze,
They little guess'd each grain of these
Convey'd the perfect charm.

ARTHUR JOSEPH MUNBY.

1828

VIOLET.

She stood where I had used to wait
For her, beneath the gaunt old yew,
And near a column of the gate
That open'd on the avenue.

The moss that capp'd its granite ball,
The grey and yellow lichen stains,
The ivy on the old park wall,

Were glossy with the morning rains.

She stood amid such tearful gloom;
But close behind her, out of reach,
Lay many a mound of orchard bloom,
And trellis'd blossoms of the peach.

Those peaches blooming to the South,
Those orchard blossoms, seem'd to me
Like kisses of her rosy mouth

Revived on trellis and on tree :

Kisses that die not when the thrill
Of joy that answer'd them is mute,

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,
Stood resting on the yew-tree bole,
A-tiptoe to each sylvan sound.

She, whom I thought so still and shy,
Express'd in every subtle move
Of lifted hand and open eye
The large expectancy of love.