A ROMANCE OF THE GANGES.

53

"And when, in seasons after,

Thy young bright-faced son

Shall lean against thy knee, and ask
What deeds his sire hath done;
Press deep adown thy mother-smile
Upon his ringlets long-

View deep his pretty childish eyes—
And tell of-Luti's wrong!"

The river floweth on.

She looked up in wonder,

Yet softly answered she

"By loves that last when lights are past,
I vowed that vow to thee!

But why glads it thee, that a bride-day be
By a word of wo defiled-

That a word of wrong take the cradle song
From the ear of a sinless child?"

"Why!" Luti said, and her laugh was dread,— Her laugh was low and wild

"That the fair new love may the bridegroom

prove,

And the father shame the child!"

The river floweth on.

"Thou flowest still, O river!

Thou flowest 'neath the moon

Thy lily hath not changed a leaf,
Thy charmed lute a tune!

He mixed his voice with thine-and his

Was all I heard around!

But now, beside his chosen bride,

I hear the river's sound!"

The river floweth on.

Come back! she hath departed-
The word is wandering with her,
And the stricken maidens hear afar
The step and cry together.

O symbols! none are frail enow
For mortal joys to borrow!

While bright doth float Nuleeni's boat,

She weepeth, dark with sorrow!

The river floweth on.

E. B. BARRETT.

HOPE.

HOPE! ready promiser, unsure performer,
Unequal architect, that builds the mole
Which breaks the mountain billows into spray:
Or fabrics fragile as the gossamers',

That come and vanish with the dews of morn;
Bitter betrayer, yet sweet counsellor,
Voucher believed with thousand broken oaths!
Friend false, yet, for a fair face, trusted still-
Why do I listen to thee? Joyful dream,

That turns out oft, on waking, blank despair;

MY GRAVE.

Why do I trust thy visions and dream on,
Grasping the good I never may enjoy?

55

Yet art thou blest so far-The naked wretch
Goes clad by thee the while-the hungry feasts!
The woe-begone forget their tears and smile!
The better part of being is filled up

With solace by thee, and the load, that else
Would break the back, is born with patience still!
Thou art the anodyne which lulls the pang,
That should not chide thee, tho' it wakes again!
The stimulant which breaks the lethargy,
Which, tho' it close on us again, thou robb'st
Of so much being, else were swallowed up!
Thou art a good, although a doubtful one;
And, wanting thee, this fitful course of life
Were never half run through.

S. KNOWLES.

MY GRAVE.

SHALL they bury me in the deep,
Where wind-forgetting waters sleep?
Shall they dig a grave for me

Under the green-wood tree?
Or on the wild heath,

Where the wilder breath
Of the storm doth blow?

Oh, no! oh, no!

Shall they bury me in the Palace Tombs,
Or under the shade of Cathedral domes?

Sweet 'twere to lie on Italy's shore;

Yet not there-nor in Greece, though I love it

more.

In the wolf or the vulture my grave shall I find?
Shall my ashes career on the world-seeing wind?
Shall they fling my corpse in the battle mound,
Where coffinless thousands lie under the ground?
Just as they fall they are buried so-
Oh, no! oh, no!

No! on an Irish green hill-side,

On an opening lawn-but not too wide;
For I love the drip of the wetted trees-
On me blow no gales, but a gentle breeze,
To freshen the turf: put no tombstone there,
But green sods deck'd with daisies fair.
Nor sods too deep; but so that the dew,
The matted grass-roots may trickle through—
Be my epitaph writ on my country's mind,
"He served his country and loved his kind.”
Oh! 'twere merry unto the grave to go,

If one were sure to be buried so.

ANON.

A WISH.

OH! that I were a fairy sprite to wander

In forest paths, o'erarched with oak and beech;
Where the sun's yellow light, in slanting rays,
Sleeps on the dewy moss: what time the breath
Of early morn stirs the white hawthorn boughs,
And fills the air with showers of snowy blossoms.
Or lie at sunset 'mid the purple heather,
Listening the silver music that rings out
From the pale mountain bells, swayed by the
wind.

Or sit in rocky clefts above the sea,

While one by one the evening stars shine forth Among the gathering clouds, that strew the heavens

Like floating purple wreaths of mournful nightshade!

F. A. BUTLER.

MY FATHER.

"At evening-time there shall be light."

SACRED the hour when thou, my sainted father,

Wast of thy worn-out sinking clay undressed, Softly, by his pale hand who comes to gather Time's weary pilgrims home to joy and rest.