Until, with all her dewy hair
Dissolved into a golden flame
Of sunshine on the sunless air,
She came to meet me as I came.

But in her face no sunshine shone ;
No sunlight, but the sad unrest
Of shade that sinks from zone to zone
When twilight glimmers in the West.

What grief had touch'd her on the nerve?
For grief alone it is that stirs

The full ineffable reserve

Of quiet spirits such as hers.

'Twas this that we had met to part;
That I was going, and that she
Had nothing left but her true heart
Made strong by memories of me.

What wonder then she quite forgot
Her old repression and controul,
And loosed at once, and stinted not,
The tender tumult of her soul?

What wonder that she droop'd and lay
In silence, and at length in tears,
On that which should have been the stay
And comfort of her matron years?

But from her bosom, as she lean'd,
She took a nestled violet,

And gave it me: "because 'twas mean'd
For those who never can forget."

This is the flower! 'tis dry-or wet

With something I may call my own.

Why did I rouse this old regret?
It irks me, now, to be alone.

Triumphs, indeed! Why, after all,
My life has but a leaden hue :

My heart grows like the heart of Saul,
For hatred, and for madness too.

Why sits that smirking minstrel there?
I hate him and the songs he sings :
They only bring the fond despair
Of inaccessible sweet things.

I will avoid him once for all,

Or slay him in my righteous ire ;-
Alas! my javelin hits the wall,

And spares the minstrel and his lyre.

Yea! and the crown upon my head,

The crown of wealth for which I strove,
Shall fall away ere I be dead

To yon slight boy who sings of love.

Why are we captive, such as I,
Mature in age and strong in will,
To one who harps so plaintively?
I struck at him: why lives he still ?

Why lives he still ?

Because the ruth

Of those pure days may never die.
He lives because his name is Youth,

Because his harp is Memory.

MARY ANERLEY.

Little Mary Anerley, sitting on the stile!

Why do you blush so red, and why so strangely smile?
Somebody has been with you: somebody, I know,
Left that sunset on your cheek, left you smiling so.

Gentle Mary Anerley, waiting by the wall,

Waiting in the chestnut walk where the snowy blossoms fall!

Somebody is coming there: somebody, I'm sure,

Knows your eyes are full of love, knows your heart is pure.

Happy Mary Anerley, looking O so fair!

There's a ring upon your hand, and there's myrtle in your hair. Somebody is with you now somebody, I see,

Looks into your trusting face very tenderly.

Quiet Mary Forester, sitting by the shore,
Rosy faces at your knee, roses round the door!
Somebody is coming home: somebody, I know,
Made you sorry when he sailed. Are you sorry now?

انراد

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.

1828-1882.

THE CARD-DEALER.

Could you not drink her gaze like wine?
Yet, though its splendour swoon

Into the silence languidly

As a tune into a tune,

Those eyes unravel the coil'd night

And know the stars at noon.

The gold that's heap'd beside her hand

In truth rich prize it were;

And rich the dreams that wreathe her brows

With magic stillness there;

And he were rich who would unwind

That woven golden hair.

Around her, where she sits, the dance

Now breathes its eager heat;

And not more lightly or more true

Fall there the dancers' feet

Than fall her cards on the bright board,
As 'twere a heart that beat.

Her fingers let them softly through,

Smooth polish'd silent things; And each one as it falls reflects

In swift light-shadowings,

Blood-red and purple, green and blue,

The great eyes of her rings.

Whom plays she with? With thee who lovest
Those gems upon her hand;

With me, who search her secret brows;
With all men, bless'd or bann'd.

We play together, she and we,
Within a vain strange land.

A land without any order,—

Day even as night (one saith),—
Where who lieth down ariseth not
Nor the sleeper awakeneth;
A land of darkness as darkness itself
And of the shadow of death.

What be her cards? you ask. Even these :
The heart, that doth but crave

More, having fed; the diamond,
Skill'd to make base seem brave;

The club, for smiting in the dark ;
The spade, to dig a grave.

And do you ask what game she plays?
With me 'tis lost or won;

With thee it is playing still; with him

It is not well begun :

But 'tis a game she plays with all
Beneath the sway o' the sun.

Thou seest the card that falls ;-she knows
The card that followeth :

Her game in thy tongue is call'd Life,

As ebbs thy daily breath :

When she shall speak, thou'lt learn her tongue,

And know she calls it Death.

FIRST LOVe remembered.
Peace in her chamber! whereso'er
It be, a holy place :

The thought still brings my soul such grace
As morning meadows wear.

Whether it still be small and light,
A maid's, who dreams alone,
As from her orchard gate the moon
Its ceiling show'd at night :

Or whether, in a shadow dense,
As nuptial hymns invoke,

Innocent maidenhood awoke

To married innocence :

There still the thanks unheard await

The unconscious gift bequeath'd,—
For there my soul this hour has breathed
An air inviolate.

LILITH.

Of Adam's first wife, Lilith, it is told

(The witch beloved before the gift of Eve)

That, ere the Snake's, her sweet tongue could deceive, And her enchanted hair was the first gold.

And still she sits, young while the earth is old,

And, subtly of herself contemplative,

Draws men to watch the bright net she can weave,

Till heart and body and life are in its hold.

The rose and poppy are her flowers for where
Is he not found, O Lilith! whom shed scent