Yet pause, my unflecked soul, and think

How vexed Penelope

Forsook her nuptial joy, that love

Should wait on modesty.

For gentle souls must keep their bounds,

Nor rudely snatch at bliss:

The very sun should lose his light

In giving it amiss.

So, when I die, cross tenderly

My palms upon my breast,

And let some faithful hand compose

My tired limbs to rest.

But thou shalt fold this kerchief white,

And lay it on my face,

Saying, "She died of love untold;

But she is dead in grace."

WISHES.

I WOULD I might approach thee,

As the moon draws near the cloud,

With still and stately courtesy,

Clear-eyed and solemn-browed;

But, when their meeting comes, her face In his deep breast doth hide,

The heavens are still, in solemn joy,

The world is glorified.

I would I might approach thee,

As music, swift afloat,

Surprises, with its sudden joy,

A wanderer in a boat:

The sordid walls of life fall down

Before that clarion clear;

A passing rapture oft recalled

When days grow blank and drear.

I would I might approach thee,
As breezes fresh and pure,
Unsighted, breathe on fevered lips,

And throbbing temples cure;

As Joy and Love, and healthful Hope, Visit some chosen heart,

And enter, softly welcomed there,

And never more depart.

FEARS.

OH! how shall I grow fair enough
For thee to look upon?

I am but the poor shallow water
That glistens in the sun,

That darkens, mean and beautiless,
When his brief glance moves on.

Oh! what shall raise me to thy sphere? How shall my thoughts aspire?

I am the string that warbles to

A poet's touch of fire:

He flings it by,—how dumb and low

Sinks the forgotten lyre!

Remember, then, my humble heart

That trembled with surprise;

Recall the faith that dared to meet

The question of thine eyes:

Shall these not make me dear to thee

Through Love's eternities?