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'Twould seem the world were large enough to hold

Both me and thee;
But now I find in space by thee controlled

No room for me.
We portioned all between us, as was fair;

That time is past;
And now I would recover my lost share,

Which still thou hast.
For that old love on which we both did live,

Keep it who can!
Yet give me back the love I used to give

To God and man.
Give me my young ambition,-my fresh fire

Of high emprize;
Give me the sweet indefinite desire

That lit mine eyes ;
Give me my sense of pleasure;-give me all

My range of dreams;
Give me my power at sunset to recall

The noontide's beams.
If not my smiles, at least give back my tears,

And leave me free
To weep

that all which man and nature cheers Is lost with thee!

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O strong as the eagle, O mild as the dove,
How like and how unlike O Death and O Love!
Knitting earth to the heaven, the near to the far,
With the step in the dust, and the eye on the star.
Ever changing your symbols of light or of gloom;
Now the rue on the altar, the rose on the tomb.
From love, if the infant receiveth his breath,
The love that gave life yields a subject to Death.
When Death smites the aged, escaping above
Flies the soul re-deliver'd by Death unto Love.
And therefore in wailing we enter on life;
And therefore in smiling depart from its strife.
Thus love is best known by the tears it has shed;
And Death's surest sign is the smile of the dead.
The purer the spirit, the clearer its view,
The more it confoundeth the shapes of the two;
For, if thou lov’st truly, thou canst not dissever

from the altar, the Now from the ever ; And if, nobly hoping, thou gazest above, In Death thou beholdest the aspect of Love.

Sir E. Bulwer Lytton. ХcІ.


Come not, when I am dead,

To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, To trample round my fallen head,

And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save, There let the wind sweep and the plover cry;

But thou, go by

Child, if it were thine error or thy crime

I care no longer, being all unblest:
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time,

And I desire to rest.
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie:

Go by, go by.

A. Tennyson.


Oh, wilt thou have my hand, Dear, to lie along in thine ?
As a little stone in a running stream, it seems to lie and pine.
Now drop the poor pale hand, Dear, unfit to plight with thine.
Oh, wilt thou have my cheek, Dear, drawn closer to thine own?
My cheek is white, my cheek is worn, by many a tear run down.
Now leave a little space, Dear, lest it should wet thine own.
Oh, must thou have my soul, Dear, commingled with my soul ?
Red grows the cheek, and warm the hand,—the part is in the

whole ! Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate, when soul is joined to soul.

Mrs. Browning.



My little love, do you remember,

Ere we were grown so sadly wise, Those evenings in the bleak December, Curtained warm from the snowy weather, When you and I played chess together,

Checkmated by each other's eyes?

Ah, still I see your soft white hand Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight.

Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand:
The double Castles guard the wings :
The Bishop bent on distant things,
Moves, sidling, thro' the fight.

Our fingers touch; our glances meet,
And falter; falls your golden hair

Against my cheek; your bosom sweet
Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen
Rides slow her soldiery all between,

And checks me unaware.

Ah me, the little battle's done,
Disperst is all its chivalry;
Full many a move, since then, have we
'Mid Life's perplexing chequers made,
And many a game with Fortune played, -

What is it we have won ?

This, this at least—if this alone ;-
That never, never, never more,
As in those old still nights of yore,

(Ere we were grown so sadly wise)

and I shut out the skies,
Shut out the world, and wintry weather,

And, eyes exchanging warmth with eyes, Play chess, as then we played together.

Owen Meredith. XCIV.

“ My birth-day”—what a different sound

That word had in my youthful ears !
And how, each time the day comes round,

Less and less white its mark appears.
When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to

grow old;
And, as Youth counts the shining links,

That time around him binds so fast, Pleased with the task, he little thinks

How hard that chain will press at last. Vain was the man, and false as vain, *

Who said _" were he ordained to run “ His long career of life again,

“ He would do all that he had done.”_ Ah, 'tis not thus the voice that dwells

In sober birthdays speaks to me;
Far otherwise-of time it tells,

Lavished unwisely, carelessly ;-
Of counsel mocked; of talents, made

Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense laid

Upon unholy, earthly shrines; Of nursing many a wrong desire;

Of wandering after Love too far, And taking every meteor fire,

That crossed my pathway, for his star, All this, it tells, and could I trace

The imperfect picture o'er again,
With power to add, retouch, efface

The lights and shades, the joy and pain,
How little of the past would stay?
How quickly all should melt away-
All but that Freedom of the mind,

Which hath been more than wealth to me;
Those friendships, in my boyhood twin'd,

And kept till now unchangingly, And that dear home, that saving ark,

Where Love's true light at last I've found, Cheering within, when all grows dark,

And comfortless and stormy round!

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