Tho' other lips be pressed to his,
And other arms about him twine,
And tho' another reign in bliss

In that true heart that once was mine;

Yet, oh! I cry it in my grief,

I cry it blindly in my pain,

I know it will not bring relief,
Yet oh! to see him once again.

ARTHUR GREY BUTLER.

XVII

TO EDWARD WILLIAMS

THE serpent is shut out from paradise.

The wounded deer must seek the herb no more

In which its heart-cure lies:

The widowed dove must cease to haunt a bower Like that from which its mate with feignèd sighs Fled in the April hour.

I too must seldom seek again

Near happy friends a mitigated pain.

Of hatred I am proud,—with scorn content ; Indifference, that once hurt me, now is grown Itself indifferent.

But, not to speak of love, pity alone Can break a spirit already more than bent. The miserable one

Turns the mind's poison into food,

Its medicine is tears, -its evil good.

C

Therefore, if now I see you seldomer,

Dear friends, dear friend! know that I only fly
Your looks, because they stir

Griefs that should sleep, and hopes that cannot die : The very comfort that they minister

I scarce can bear, yet I,

So deeply is the arrow gone,

Should quickly perish if it were withdrawn.

When I return to my cold home, you ask
Why I am not as I have ever been.
You spoil me for the task

Of acting a forced part in life's dull scene,-
Of wearing on my brow the idle mask

Of author, great or mean,

In the world's carnival.

I sought

Peace thus, and but in you I found it not.

Full half an hour, to-day, I tried my lot

With various flowers, and every one still said,
"She loves me-loves me not."

And if this meant a vision long since fled-
If it meant fortune, fame, or peace of thought-
If it meant,-but I dread

To speak what you may know too well:
Still there was truth in the sad oracle.

The crane o'er seas and forests seeks her home;
No bird so wild but has its quiet nest,
Where it no more would roam;

The sleepless billows on the ocean's breast
Break like a bursting heart, and die in foam,
And thus at length find rest.

Doubtless there is a place of peace

Where my weak heart and all its throbs will cease.

I asked her, yesterday, if she believed
That I had resolution. One who had
Would ne'er have thus relieved

His heart with words,—but what his judgment bade Would do, and leave the scorner unrelieved.

These verses are too sad

To send to you, but that I know,

Happy yourself, you feel another's woe.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

XVIII

GODFRID TO OLIVE

(FROM The Human Tragedy)

ACCEPT it, Olive? Surely, yes;
This ring of emeralds, diamonds too :
As I would take,-no need to press,-
A leaf, a crown from you!

No rudest art, no brightest ore,

Could make its value less or more.

Gone is my strength.

'Twere useless quite

To tell you that it is not hard

To have one's paradise in sight,
Withal, to be debarred.

And yet the generous glimpse you gave
Was more than once I dared to crave.

Hard! very hard, sweet! but ordained.

We know 'tis God's own world, at worst.

And we have only partly drained,

And so still partly thirst;

While others parched remain, or seize
Fiercely the cup and drain the lees.

So let us strive to deem it well,
However now we stand aghast.
Earth, Heaven, not being parallel,
Perforce must meet at last.
And, in that disembodied clime,
A clasp more close may not be crime.

You loved me too well to deny :
I loved you far too well to ask.
Only a kiss, a gaze, a sigh,
A tear, and then a mask.

We spared the fruit of Good-and-Ill;
We dwell within our Eden still.

O sunshine in profoundest gloom,

To know that on the earth there dwells, Somewhere, unseen, one woman whom No noblest thought excels;

And that by valour to resign,

I make her more than ever mine.

Too late, too late, I learn how sweet
'Twould be to reach a noble aim,
And then fling fondly at your feet
The fulness of my fame.

Now-now, I scarce know which is best,

To strive, or lay me down and rest.

O winter in the sunless land!

O narrowed day! O darker night!

O loss of all that let me stand

A giant in the fight!

I dwindle: for I see, and sigh,

A mated bird is more than I.

God bless you, Olive! Even so

God bless your husband! He, if true
To his sweet trust, to me will grow

Only less dear than you.

But should he hurt his tender charge-
Why, hate is hot where love is large.

Yes yes!-God bless your wedded lot!
My beautiful!-no-no-not mine!
I scarce know what is, what is not,
Only that I am thine ;-

Thine, thine, come aught, come all amiss.
No time, no fate, can alter this!

ALFRED AUSTIN.

XIX

REMEMBER me-on! pass not thou my grave

Without one thought whose relics there recline:

The only pang my bosom dare not brave
Must be to find forgetfulness in thine.

My fondest faintest-latest accents hear-
Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove;
Then give me all I ever ask'd—a tear,

The first-last-sole reward of so much love!
GEORGE LORD BYRON.

XX

ΤΟ

WHEN passion's trance is overpast,
If tenderness and truth could last
Or live, whilst all wild feelings keep
Some mortal slumber, dark and deep,
I should not weep, I should not weep!