Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

"I love the Lady of Merle," he said. "She is not for thee!" her suitor cried. And in the valley the lovers fought

"Turn me a rhyme," said Fate, "Turn me a rhyme: A swift and deadly hate

Time and I pass to and fro, Hardly greeting as we go, - Go askant, like crossing wings

Sorrow, my friend, When shall you come again? The wind is slow, and the bent willows send

Delicate gayety, Strains of a violin; Graceful steps begin -

O love, I come; thy last glance guideth me! Drawn, too, by webs of shadow, like thine hair; For, Sweet, the mystery

He handed his life a poisoned draught, With a scornful smile and a cold, cold glance, And the merry bystanders loudly laughed

There in the midst of gloom the church-spire rose, And not a star lit any side of heaven; In glades not far the damp reeds coldly touched

The sun is lying on the garden-wall, The full red rose is sweetening all the air, The day is happier than a dream most fair;

"Cross my hands upon my breast," Read her last behest. "Turn my cheek upon the pillow,

I. Death's Eloquence. When I shall go

When I shall go Into the narrow home that leaves No room for wringing of the hands and hair,

Dear little Dorothy, she is no more! I have wandered world-wide, from shore to shore, I have seen as great beauties as ever were wed;

New days are dear, and cannot be unloved, Though in deep grief we mourn, and cling to death; Who has not known, in living on, a breath

O girl of spring! O brown-eyed girl! Gathering violets near the woods, Whose coy young petals half unfurl

Weeping for another's woe, Tears flow then that would not flow When our sorrow was our own,

I loved a child as we should love Each other everywhere; I cared more for his happiness

[In Memory: 1877.] What shall I say, my friend, my own heart healing, When for my love you cannot answer me?

Somewhere, somewhere in this heart There lies a jewel from the sea, Or from a rock, or from the sand,

Ill-wrought life we look at as we die! Mistaken, selfish, meagre, and unmeet; So graven on the hearts that cruelly

I. There was a maiden in a land Was buried with all honor fine,

I dreamed within a dream the sun was gold; And as I walked beneath this golden sun, The world was like a mighty play-room old,

We are moving on in silence, Save for rattling iron and steel, And a skirmish echoing round us,

Here is a world of changing glow, Where moods roll swiftly far and wide; Waves sadder than a funeral's pride,

My graveyard holds no once-loved human forms, Grown hideous and forgotten, left alone, But every agony my heart has known, -

All to herself a woman never sings A happy song. Oh no! but it is so As when the thrush has closed down his wings

Gray towers make me think of thee, Thou girl of olden minstrelsy, Young as the sunlight of to-day,

O soul of life, 't is thee we long to hear, Thine eyes we seek for, and thy touch we dream; Lost from our days, thou art a spirit near, -

The sanctity that is about the dead To make us love them more than late, when here, Is not it well to find the living dear

Turn thy face to me, my love, I come from out the morning; Give thy hand to me, my love,

So ancient to myself I seem, I might have crossed grave Styx's stream A year ago; -

The thanking heart can only silence keep; The breaking heart can only die alone: Our happy love above abysses deep

We speak of the world that passes away, - The world of men who lived years ago, And could not feel that their hearts' quick glow

An angel spoke with me, and lo, he hoarded My falling tears to cheer a flower's face! For, so it seems, in all the heavenly space

[Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1864.] Where spells were wrought he sat alone, The wizard touching minds of men

Lullaby on the wing Of my song, O my own! Soft airs of evening

Pray, have you heard the news? Sturdy in lungs and thews, There's a fine baby!

Eileen of four, Eileen of smiles; Eileen of five,

Say not, sad bell, another hour hath come, Bare for the record of a world of crime; Toll, rather, friend, the end of hideous Time,

We all have hearts that shake alike Beneath the arias of Fate's hand; Although the cynics sneering stand,

Down slant the moonbeams to the floor Through the garret's scented air, And show a thin-spoked spinning-wheel,

At purple eyes beside the grain, Our loves on altars we had burned, And mixed our tribute with the dew,

Come, brothers, let us sing a dirge, - A dirge for myriad chances dead; In grief your mournful accents merge:

To his heart it struck such terror That he laughed a laugh of scorn, - The man in the soldier's doublet,

The mothers wish for no more daughters; There is no future before them. They bow their heads and their pride

ART. One is so fair, I turn to go, As others go, its beckoning length;

The world was like a shell to me, - Its voice with distant song was low; But now its mysteries I know:

A shadowed form before the light, A gleaming face against the night, Clutched hands across a halo bright

A broken mirror in a trembling hand; Sad, trembling lips that utter broken thought: One of a wide and wandering, aimless band;

Touch gently, friend, and slow, the violin, So sweet and low, That my dreaming senses may be beckoned so Into a rest as deep as the long past "years ago!"

We see the sky, - we love it day by day; We feel the wind of Spring, from blossoms winging; We meet with souls tender as tints in May:

Twenty bold mariners went to the wave, Twenty sweet breezes blew over the main; All were so hearty, so free, and so brave, -

Take me away into a storm of snow So white and soft, I feel no deathly chill, But listen to the murmuring overflow

Paler than the water's white Stood the maiden in the shade, And more silent than the night

Hand me my light gloves, James; I'm off for the waltzing world, The kingdom of Strauss and that -

Why is the nameless sorrowing look So often thought a whim? God-willed, the willow shades the brook,

Labor not in the murky dell, But till your harvest hill at morn; Stoop to no words that, rank and fell,