Was the hand that you gave her as white and clean as that of her womanhood? Go, measure yourself by her standard; look back on the years that have fled! Then ask, if you need, why she tells you that the love of her girlhood is dead. She cannot look down to her lover: her love like her soul, aspires; He must stand by her side, or above her, who would kindle its holy fires. Now farewell! For the sake of old friendship I have ventured to tell you the truth, As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier youth. LUCY LARCOM. Born in Massachusetts 1826 A LOYAL WOMAN'S NO. No! is my answer from this cold, bleak ridge, Pity me, if you will! I look at you With something that is kinder far than scorn, And think-" Ah, well! I might have grovel'd, too; I might have walk'd there, fetter'd and forsworn." I am of nature weak as others are; I might have chosen comfortable ways; I might, I will not hide it,—once I might Have lost, in the warm whirlpools of your voice, The sense of Evil, the stern cry of Right; Not with the triumph that looks back to jeer I am not yours, because you prize in me Nor of my heaven-smit summits do you : dream. I am not yours, because you love yourself: I Not yours,- ---because you are not man enough But when he falters by her side, or creeps, -- She must not clog her soul with him to go. Who weds me must at least with equal pace Sometimes move with me at my being's height: To follow him to his superior place, His rarer atmosphere, were keen delight. You lure me to the valley: men should call The morning chaunt of Liberty and Law! The men and women mated for that time Sleep your thick sleep, and go your drowsy way! The brightness of its coming can you bear? For me, I do not walk these hills alone: Heroes who pour'd their blood out for the truth, Women whose hearts bled, martyrs all unknown, Here catch the sunrise of immortal youth On their pale cheeks and consecrated brows :— HANNAH BINDING SHOES. POOR lone Hannah, Sitting at the window, binding shoes! Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse! Not a neighbour Passing nod or answer will refuse, "Is there from the fishers any news?" O, her heart's adrift, with one Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. Fair young Hannah Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gayly woos: For a willing heart and hand he sues. Hannah leaves her window and her shoes. May is passing: 'Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon coos. For the mild southwester mischief brews. Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. "Tis November, Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews; Not a sail returning will she lose,- Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. Twenty winters Bleach and tear the ragged shore she views. Never one has brought her any news. Chase the white sails o'er the sea: Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. THE CURTAIN OF THE DARK. THE curtain of the dark Is pierced by many a rent: Grief is a tatter'd tent Where through God's light doth shine: Who glances up, at every rent Shall catch a ray divine. SLEEP-SONG. HUSH the homeless baby's crying, 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, Breathe thy balm upon the lonely, As the twilight breezes bless O'er the agèd pour thy blessing, Like a soft and ripening rain, |