JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

1819.

1841.

My Love, I have no fear that thou shouldst die;
Albeit I ask no fairer life than this,

Whose numbering-clock is still thy gentle kiss,
While Time and Peace with hands enlocked fly;
Yet care I not where in Eternity

We live and love, well knowing that there is
No backward step for those who feel the bliss
Of Faith as their most lofty yearnings high:
Love hath so purified my being's core,
Meseems I scarcely should be startled, even,

To find, some morn, that thou hadst gone before;
Since, with thy love, this knowledge too was given,
Which each calm day doth strengthen more and more,
That they who love are but one step from Heaven.

I cannot think that thou shouldst pass away,
Whose life to mine is an eternal law,

A piece of nature that can have no flaw,
A new and certain sunrise every day;
But, if thou art to be another ray
About the Sun of Life, and art to live
Free from all of thee that was fugitive,
The debt of love I will more fully pay,
Not downcast with the thought of thee so high,
But rather raised to be a nobler man,

And more divine in my humanity,

As knowing that the waiting eyes which scan
My life are lighted by a purer being,

And ask meek, calm-browed deeds, with it agreeing.

IN ABSENCE.

These rugged, wintry days I scarce could bear,

Did I not know, that, in the early spring,
When wild March winds upon their errands sing,
Thou wouldst return, bursting on this still air,

Like those same winds, when, startled from their lair,
They hunt up violets, and free swift brooks
From icy cares, even as thy clear looks

Bid my heart bloom, and sing, and break all care:
When drops with welcome rain the April day,
My flowers shall find their April in thine eyes,
Save there the rain in dreamy clouds doth stay,
As loath to fall out of those happy skies;
Yet sure, my love, thou art most like to May,
That comes with steady sun when April dies.

I thought our love at full, but I did err;
Joy's wreath drooped o'er mine eyes; I could not see
That sorrow in our happy world must be
Love's deepest spokesman and interpreter;
But, as a mother feels her child first stir
Under her heart, so felt I instantly
Deep in my soul another bond to thee
Thrill with that life we saw depart from her;
O mother of our angel-child! twice dear!
Death knits as well as parts, and still, I wis,
Her tender radiance shall enfold us here,
Even as the light, borne up by inward bliss,
Threads the void glooms of space without a fear,
To print on farthest stars her pitying kiss.

ROBERT BROWNING.

1812

-Bella and Pomegranata." 1845.7

THE LOST MISTRESS.

ALL's over, then: does truth sound bitter

As one at first believes !

Hark! t is the sparrow's good-night twitter
About your cottage eaves.

And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,

I noticed that to-day;

One day more bursts them open fully,
You know the red turns gray.

To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?
May I take your hand in mine?

Mere friends are we; well, friends the merest
Keep much that I'll resign:

For each glance of that eye so bright and black,
Though I keep with heart's endeavour,
Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,
Though it stays in my soul forever!

Yet I will but say what mere friends say,
Or only a thought stronger;

I will hold your hand but as long as all may,

Or so very little longer!

["Men and Women." 1856.]

EVELYN HOPE.

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!

Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed;

She plucked that piece of geranium-flower,

Beginning to die, too, in the glass.

Little has yet been changed, I think:

The shutters are shut, no light may pass,

Save two long rays through the hinge's chink.

Sixteen years old when she died!

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name;

It was not her time to love: beside,

Her life had many a hope and aim,

Duties enough and little cares;

And now was quiet, now astir;

Till God's hand beckoned unawares,

And the sweet white brow is all of her.

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope?

What! your soul was pure and true; The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit, fire and dew;

And just because I was thrice as old,

And our paths in the world diverged so wide,

Each was naught to each, must I be told?
We were fellow mortals, naught beside?

No, indeed! for God above

Is great to grant, as mighty to make,

And creates the love to reward the love;
I claim you still, for my own love's sake!
Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet,

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few;
Much is to learn and much to forget

Ere the time be come for taking you.

But the time will come, at last it will,

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say, In the lower earth, in the years long still,

That body and soul so pure and gay? Why your hair was amber, I shall divine,

And your mouth of your own geranium's red, And what you would do with me, in fine,

In the new life come in the old one's stead.

I have lived, I shall say, so much since then,
Given up myself so many times,
Gained me the gains of various men,

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope,
Either I missed or itself missed me;
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!
What is the issue? Let us see!

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while;

My heart seemed full as it could hold;

There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, And the red young mouth and the hair's young gold.

So, hush, I will give you this leaf to keep,

See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand.

There, that is our secret! go to sleep;

You will wake, and remember, and understand.