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'Twould seem the world were large enough to hold
Both me and thee;
No room for me.
That time is past;
Which still thou hast.
Keep it who can!
To God and man.
Of high emprize;
That lit mine eyes ;
My range of dreams;
The noontide's beams.
And leave me free
that all which man and nature cheers Is lost with thee!
LOVE AND DEATH.
O strong as the eagle, O mild as the dove,
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.
LOVE IN DEATH.
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:
And I desire to rest.
Go by, go by.
Oh, wilt thou have my hand, Dear, to lie along in thine ?
whole ! Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate, when soul is joined to soul.
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:
Our fingers touch; our glances meet,
Against my cheek; your bosom sweet
And checks me unaware.
Ah me, the little battle's done,
What is it we have won ?
This, this at least—if this alone ;-
(Ere we were grown so sadly wise)
and I shut out the skies,
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 !
Less and less white its mark appears.
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;
Lavished unwisely, carelessly ;-
Haply for high and pure designs,
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,
The lights and shades, the joy and pain,
Which hath been more than wealth to me;
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!