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Apres.
Dow
OWN, down, Ellen, my little one-

Climbing so tenderly up to my knee;
Why should you add to the thoughts that are taunting me,

Dreams of your mother's arms clinging to me?

Cease, cease, Ellen, my little one

Warbling so fairily close to my ear; Why should you choose, of all songs that are haunting me,

This that I made for your mother to hear?

Hush, hush, Ellen, my little one-

Wailing so wearily under the stars; Why should I think of her tears, that make light to me,

Love that had made life, and sorrow that mars ?

Sleep, sleep, Ellen, my little one

Is she not like her, whenever she stirs ?
Has she not eyes that will soon be as bright to me,

Lips that will some day be honeyed, like hers ?

Yes, yes, Ellen, my little one

Though her white bosom is stilled in the grave, Something more white than her bosom is spared to me,

Something to cling to, and something to crave:

Love, love, Ellen, my little one!

Love indestructible, love undefiled,
Love through all deeps of her spirit, lies bared to me,
Oft as I look on the face of her child.

ARTHUR J. MUNBY.

FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE.

181

Farewell to his Wife.
FARE
ARE thee well! and if forever,

Still forever, fare thee well;
Even though unforgiving, never

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Would that breast were bared before thee

Where thy head sp 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

'T was not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee

Though it smile upon the blow, E'en 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, oh yet, thyself deceive not;

Love may sink by slow decay ; But, by sudden wrench, believe not

Hearts can thus be torn away:

Still thine own its life retaineth

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth

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 lips 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 never more may'st see, Then thy heart will softly tremble

With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults, perchance, thou knowest,

All my madness none can know; All my hopes, where'er thou goest,

Wither, yet with thee they go.

Every feeling hath been shaken;

Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,

E’en my soul forsakes me now:

But 'tis done-all words are idle

Words from me are vainer still; Yet the thoughts we cannot bridle

Force their way without the will.

Fare thee well! thus disunited,

Torn from every nearer tie,
Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted,
More than this I scarce can die !

LORD BYRON.

WATCHING.

183

Watching.

S
LEEP, love, sleep !

The dusty day is done.
Lo! from afar the freshening breezes sweep
Wide over groves of balm,
Down from the towering palm,
In at the open casement cooling run,
And round thy lowly bed,
Thy bed of pain,
Bathing thy patient head,
Like grateful showers of rain,
They come;
While the white curtains, waving to and fro,
Fan the sick air;
And pityingly the shadows come and go,
With gentle human care,
Compassionate and dumb.

The dusty day is done,
The night begun;
While prayerful watch I keep,
Sleep, love, sleep!
Is there no magic in the touch
Of fingers thou dost love so much?
Fain would they scatter poppies o'er thee now;
Or, with its mute caress,
The tremulous lip some soft nepenthe press
Upon thy weary lid and aching brow;
While prayerful watch I keep,
Sleep, love, sleep!

On the pagoda spire
The bells are swinging,
Their little golden circlet in a futter
With tales the wooing winds have dared to utter,

Till all are ringing,
As if a choir
Of golden-nested birds in heaven were singing;
And with a lulling sound
The music floats around,
And drops like balm into the drowsy ear ;
Commingling with the hum
Of the Sepoy's distant drum,
And lazy beetle ever droning near.
Sounds these of deepest silence born,
Like night made visible by morn;
So silent that I sometimes start
To hear the throbbings of my heart,
And watch, with shivering sense of pain,
To see thy pale lids lift again.

The lizard, with his mouse-like eyes,
Peeps from the mortise in surprise
At such strange quiet after day's harsh din;
Then boldly ventures out,
And looks about,
And with his hollow feet
Treads his small evening beat,
Darting upon his prey
In such a tricky, winsome sort of way,
His delicate marauding seems no sin.
And still the curtains swing,
But noiselessly;
The bells a melancholy murmur ring,
As tears were in the sky:
More heavily the shadows fall,
Like the black foldings of a pall,
Where juts the rough beam from the wall;
The candles flare
With fresher gusts of air;
The beetle's drone
Turns to a dirge-like, solitary moan;
Night deepens, and I sit, in cheerless doubt, alone.

EMILY C. JUDSON.

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