Her beauty smoothed earth’s furrowed face! 
  She gave me tokens three:—­
A look, a word of her winsome mouth,
  And a wild raspberry.

A berry red, a guileless look,
  A still word,—­strings of sand! 
And yet they made my wild, wild heart
  Fly down to her little hand.

For standing artless as the air,
  And candid as the skies,
She took the berries with her hand,
  And the love with her sweet eyes.

The fairest things have fleetest end: 
  Their scent survives their close,
But the rose’s scent is bitterness
  To him that loved the rose!

She looked a little wistfully,
  Then went her sunshine way:—­
The sea’s eye had a mist on it,
  And the leaves fell from the day.

She went her unremembering way,
  She went and left in me
The pang of all the partings gone,
  And partings yet to be.

She left me marvelling why my soul
  Was sad that she was glad;
At all the sadness in the sweet,
  The sweetness in the sad.

Still, still I seemed to see her, still
  Look up with soft replies,
And take the berries with her hand,
  And the love with her lovely eyes.

Nothing begins, and nothing ends,
  That is not paid with moan;
For we are born in others’ pain,
  And perish in our own.

FRANCIS THOMPSON.

SONG OF EGLA.

Day, in melting purple dying;
Blossoms, all around me sighing;
Fragrance, from the lilies straying;
Zephyr, with my ringlets playing;
  Ye but waken my distress;
  I am sick of loneliness!

Thou, to whom I love to hearken,
Come, ere night around me darken;
Though thy softness but deceive me,
Say thou’rt true, and I’ll believe thee;
  Veil, if ill, thy soul’s intent,
  Let me think it innocent!

Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure;
All I ask is friendship’s pleasure;
Let the shining ore lie darkling,—­
Bring no gem in lustre sparkling;
  Gifts and gold are naught to me,
  I would only look on thee!

Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling,
Ecstasy but in revealing;
Paint to thee the deep sensation,
Rapture in participation;
  Yet but torture, if comprest
  In a lone, unfriended breast.

Absent still!  Ah! come and bless me! 
Let these eyes again caress thee. 
Once in caution, I could fly thee;
Now, I nothing could deny thee. 
  In a look if death there be,
  Come, and I will gaze on thee!

MARIA GOWEN BROOKS (Maria del Occidente).

WHAT AILS THIS HEART O’ MINE?

What ails this heart o’ mine? 
  What ails this watery ee? 
What gars me a’ turn pale as death
  When I take leave o’ thee? 
Whea thou art far awa’,
  Thou’lt dearer grow to me;
But change o’ place and change o’ folk
  May gar thy fancy jee.