“ Grant I may so Thy steps track here below,
That in these masks and shadows I may see
Thy sacred way; And by those hid ascents climb to that day
Which breaks from thee, Who art in all things, though invisibly:
Show me thy peace, Thy mercy, love, and ease.
And from this care, where dreams and sorrows reign,
Lead me above, Where light, joy, leisure, and true comforts move
Without all pain: There, hid in thee, show me his life again
At whose dumb urn Thus all the year I mourn.
HENRY VAUGHAN.
THE GREEN GRASS UNDER THE SNOW.
The work of the sun is slow,
But as sure as heaven, we know ”

“ What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay.
As the husband is, the wife is; thou art mated with a clown,
And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down.
He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force,
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.
What is this? his eyes are heavy,—think not they are glazed with wine.
Go to him; it is thy duty,—kiss him; take his hand in thine.
It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is over wrought,—
Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought. ”

“ The mystery is not solved, but the silence is broken. First we listen to the poet, then we listen to the same song sung in our own hearts,—the same, for it is God who has sung to him and who sings to us. And when the bereaved has found God, he has found light in his darkness, peace in his tempest, a ray in his night.
"As a child, Whose song-bird seeks the wood forevermore,
Is sung to in its stead by mother's mouth;
Till, sinking on her breast, love-reconciled,
He sleep the faster that he wept before." ”

“ Like a dog, he hunts in dreams; and thou art staring at the wall,
Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall.
Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep,
To thy widowed marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep.
Thou shalt hear the "Never, never," whispered by the phantom years,
And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears;
And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain.
Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow; get thee to thy rest again.
Nay, but nature brings thee solace; for a tender voice will cry ”

“ To see him gain what I have lost; The height of my disdain shall be, To laugh at him, to blush for thee; To love thee still, but go no more A begging to a beggar's door.
SIR ROBERT AYTON.
TIME'S REVENGE.
She, who but late in beauty's flower was seen,
Proud of her auburn curls and noble mien—
Who froze my hopes and triumphed in my fears,
Now sheds her graces in the waste of years.
Changed to unlovely is that breast of snow,
And dimmed her eye, and wrinkled is her brow;
And querulous the voice by time repressed,
Whose artless music stole me from my rest.
Age gives redress to love ”

“ The child that a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant's affection that proved,
The husband that mother and infant that blessed,
Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest.
The maid on whose cheek on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure,—her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those that beloved her and praised
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.
The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn,
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. ”

“ And the new-year's coming up, mother; but I shall never see
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.
Last May we made a crown of flowers; we had a merry day,—
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May;
And we danced about the May-pole and in the hazel copse,
Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops.
There's not a flower on all the hills,—the frost is on the pane;
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again.
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high,—
I long to see a flower so before the day I die. ”

“ Is—that we no more may meet.
These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead; Both shall live, but every morrow
Wake us from a widowed bed.
And when thou wouldst solace gather,
When our child's first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!"
Though his care she must forego?
When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is pressed, Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
Think of him thy love had blessed!
Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou nevermore mayst see, Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me. ”

“ For all that is on or about me, I know
There is nothing that's pure but the beautiful snow.
How strange it should be that this beautiful snow
Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go!
How strange it would be, when the night comes again,
If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain!
Fainting, Freezing, Dying alone, Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my moan
To be heard in the crash of the crazy town,
Gone mad in its joy at the snow's coming down;
To lie and to die in my terrible woe,
With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow! ”

“ And are wanting a great song for Italy free, Let none look at me!
Yet I was a poetess only last year,
And good at my art, for a woman, men said. But this woman, this, who is agonized here,
The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head Forever instead.
What art can a woman be good at? O, vain!
What art is she good at, but hurting her breast With the milk teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain?
Ah, boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed, And I proud by that test.
What art's for a woman! ”

“ The flower fades, the morning hasteth,
The sun sets, the shadow flies,
The gourd consumes,—and man he dies!
Like to the grass that's newly sprung, Or like a tale that's new begun, Or like the bird that's here to-day,
Or like the pearled dew of May, Or like an hour, or like a span, Or like the singing of a swan,— E'en such is man; who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life and death.— The grass withers, the tale is ended,
The bird is flown, the dew's ascended.
The hour is short, the span is long,
The swan's near death,—man's life is done! ”

“ Feed on her damask cheek; she pined in thought;
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like Patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed?
We men may say more, swear more: but, indeed,
Our shows are more than will; for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.
SHAKESPEARE.
FAIR INES.
O saw ye not fair Ines? she's gone into the west,
To dazzle when the sun is down, and rob the world of rest;
She took our daylight with her, the smiles that we love best,
With morning blushes on her cheek, and pearls upon her breast. ”

“ Of lasting pleasure; Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails,
And swear'st to ease her; There's none can want where thou supply'st;
There's none can give where thou deny'st.
Alas! fond world, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st.
What well-advisèd ear regards
What earth can say? Thy words are gold, but thy regards
Are painted clay: Thy cunning can but pack the cards,
Thou canst not play: Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st;
If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st:
Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou ly'st.
Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint
Of new-coined treasure ”

“ To think that from Erin and thee I must part! It may be for years, and it may be forever!
Then why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart? Then why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen?
JULIA (OR LOUISA MACARTNEY) CRAWFORD.
WE PARTED IN SILENCE.
We parted in silence, we parted by night,
On the banks of that lonely river; Where the fragrant limes their boughs unite,
We met—and we parted forever! The night-bird sung, and the stars above
Told many a touching story, Of friends long passed to the kingdom of love,
Where the soul wears its mantle of glory. ”

“ Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest,
What life is best? Courts are but only superficial schools
To dandle fools: The rural parts are turned into a den
Of savage men: And where's a city from foul vice so free,
But may be termed the worst of all the three?
Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed,
Or pains his head: Those that live single, take it for a curse,
Or do things worse: Some would have children: those that have them, moan
Or wish them gone: What is it, then, to have or have no wife,
But single thraldom, or a double strife? ”

“ Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again:
Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show! Then thou wouldst at last discover
'Twas not well to spurn it so.
Though the world for this commend thee,—
Though it smile upon the blow, Even its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe:
Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?
Yet, O, yet thyself deceived not:
Love may sink by slow decay ”

“ Dear, are you sad now to hear I am saddened?
Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love,
As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love:
I cannot weep but your tears will be flowing,
You cannot smile but my cheek will be glowing;
I would not die without you at my side, love,
You will not linger when I shall have died, love.
Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow,
Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow;
Strong, swift, and fond as the words which I speak, love,
With a song on your lip and a smile on your cheek, love. ”

“ A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine; So may my love and longing hallowed be,
And thy dear thought an influence divine.
FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.
ROBIN ADAIR.
What's this dull town to me?
Robin's not near,— He whom I wished to see,
Wished for to hear; Where's all the joy and mirth
Made life a heaven on earth,
O, they're all fled with thee,
Robin Adair!
What made the assembly shine?
Robin Adair: What made the ball so fine?
Robin was there: What, when the play was o'er,
What made my heart so sore?
O, it was parting with
Robin Adair!
But now thou art far from me,
Robin Adair ”

“ Earth's mightiest powers fall and rise, No tear is wept to thee unknown,
No hair is lost, no sparrow dies!
That thou canst stay the ruthless hands
Of dark disease, and soothe its pain; That only by thy stern commands
The battle's lost, the soldier's slain; That from the distant sea or land
Thou bring'st the wanderer home again.
And when upon her pillow lone
Her tear-wet cheek is sadly pressed, May happier visions beam upon
The brightened current of her breast, No frowning look or angry tone
Disturb the Sabbath of her rest! ”

“ These various considerations may help to explain why in all ages of the world the arts have been the handmaidens of religion. Not to amplify too much, I have confined these considerations to the three arts of music, painting, and poetry; but they are also applicable to sculpture and architecture. All are attempts by men of vision to interpret to the men who are not equally endowed with vision, what the invisible world about us and within us has for the enrichment of our lives. This is exactly the function of religion: to enrich human lives by making them acquainted with the infinite. ”

“ Yet each to keep and all, retrievements out of the night, The song, the wondrous chant of the gray brown bird, And the tallying chant, the echo aroused in my soul, With the lustrous and drooping star with the countenance full of woe. With the holders holding my hand nearing the call of the bird, Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep, for the dead I loved so well. For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands—and this for his dear sake, Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul, There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim. ”

“ In vain shalt thou, or any, call
The spirits from their golden day, Except, like them, thou too canst say,
My spirit is at peace with all.
They haunt the silence of the breast,
Imaginations calm and fair, The memory like a cloudless air, The conscience as a sea at rest:
But when the heart is full of din,
And doubt beside the portal waits, They can but listen at the gates, And hear the household jar within.
L.
Do we indeed desire the dead
Should still be near us at our side? Is there no baseness we would hide? No inner vileness that we dread? ”

“ All language, whether of painting, sculpture, architecture, music, poetry, or oratory, is legitimately used to express the divine life, as all the faculties, whether of painter, sculptor, architect, musician, poet, orator, and philosopher, are to be used in reaching after a more perfect knowledge of Him who always transcends and always will transcend our perfect knowing.
Thus the study of poetry is the study of life, because poetry is the interpretation of life. Poetry is not a mere instrument for promoting enjoyment; it does not merely dazzle the imagination and excite the emotions. ”

“ Where all the ransomed and angels be: Over the river, the mystic river,
My childhood's idol is waiting for me.
For none returns from those quiet shores,
Who cross with the boatman cold and pale; We hear the dip of the golden oars,
And catch a gleam of the snowy sail; And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts,
They cross the stream and are gone for aye. We may not sunder the veil apart
That hides from our vision the gates of day; We only know that their barks no more
May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea ”

“ This land is home; no stranger art thou here;
Sweet and familiar words From voices silent long salute thine ear;
And winds and songs of birds, And bees and blooms and sweet perfumes are near.
The seraphs—they are men of kindly mien;
The gems and robes—but signs Of minds all radiant and of hearts washed clean;
The glory—such as shines Wherever faith or hope or love is seen.
And he, O doubting child! the Lord of grace
Whom thou didst fear to see— He knows thy sin—but look upon his face!
Doth it not shine on thee With a great light of love that fills the place? ”

“ With how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb'st the skies,
How silently, and with how wan a face!
What may it be, that even in heavenly place
That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;
I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? ”

“ The honest words, "Good-bye!"
"Adieu! adieu!" may greet the ear,
In the guise of courtly speech: But when we leave the kind and dear,
'Tis not what the soul would teach. Whene'er we grasp the hands of those
We would have forever nigh, The flame of Friendship bursts and glows
In the warm, frank words, "Good-bye."
The mother, sending forth her child
To meet with cares and strife, Breathes through her tears her doubts and fears
For the loved one's future life. No cold "adieu," no "farewell," lives
Within her choking sigh, But the deepest sob of anguish gives,
"God bless thee, boy! ”

“ He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know,
At first sight, if the bird be flown; But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.
And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams
Call to the soul when man doth sleep, So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
And into glory peep.
If a star were confined into a tomb,
Her captive flames must needs burn there, But when the hand that locked her up gives room,
She'll shine through all the sphere.
O Father of eternal life, and all
Created glories under thee! ”

“ To weep and yearn and vainly call, Till peace is won from pain,
Than not to grieve at all!
Yea, truly, though joy's note be sweet,
Life does not thrill to joy alone. The harp is incomplete
That has no deeper tone.
Unclouded sunshine overmuch
Falls vainly on the barren plain; But fruitful is the touch
Of sunshine after rain!
Who only scans the heavens by day
Their story but half reads, and mars; Let him learn how to say,
"The night is full of stars!"
We seek to know Thee more and more,
Dear Lord, and count our sorrows blest, Since sorrow is the door
Whereby Thou enterest. ”

“ So we'll not forget, When the skies are wet, There's green grass under the snow.
When the winds of winter blow,
Wailing like voices of woe,
There are April showers, And buds and flowers, And green grass under the snow.
We find that it's ever so
In this life's uneven flow;
We've only to wait, In the face of fate, For the green grass under the snow. ”

“ While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad, In such an ecstasy!— Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. ”

“ But I shall lie alone, mother, within the moldering grave.
Upon the chancel casement, and upon that grave of mine,
In the early, early morning the summer sun'll shine,
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill,—
When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still.
When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light
You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night;
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. ”