Oh what is a king here,
  Or what is a boor? 
Here all starve together,
  All dwarfed and poor;
Here Death’s hand knocketh
  At door after door, 30
He thins the dancers
  From the festal floor.

Oh what is a handmaid,
  Or what is a queen? 
All must lie down together
  Where the turf is green,
The foulest face hidden,
  The fairest not seen;
Gone as if never,
  They had breathed or been. 40

Gone from sweet sunshine
  Underneath the sod,
Turned from warm flesh and blood
  To senseless clod,
Gone as if never
  They had toiled or trod,
Gone out of sight of all
  Except our God.

Shut into silence
  From the accustomed song, 50
Shut into solitude
  From all earth’s throng,
Run down tho’ swift of foot,
  Thrust down tho’ strong;
Life made an end of
  Seemed it short or long.

Life made an end of,
  Life but just begun,
Life finished yesterday,
  Its last sand run; 60
Life new-born with the morrow,
  Fresh as the sun: 
While done is done for ever;
  Undone, undone.

And if that life is life,
  This is but a breath,
The passage of a dream
  And the shadow of death;
But a vain shadow
  If one considereth; 70
Vanity of vanities,
  As the Preacher saith.

A SMILE AND A SIGH

(Macmillan’s Magazine, May 1868.)

A smile because the nights are short! 
  And every morning brings such pleasure
Of sweet love-making, harmless sport: 
  Love, that makes and finds its treasure;
  Love, treasure without measure.

A sigh because the days are long! 
  Long long these days that pass in sighing,
A burden saddens every song: 
  While time lags who should be flying,
  We live who would be dying.

DEAD HOPE

(Macmillan’s Magazine, May 1868.)

Hope new born one pleasant morn
  Died at even;
Hope dead lives nevermore. 
  No, not in heaven.

If his shroud were but a cloud
  To weep itself away;
Or were he buried underground
  To sprout some day! 
But dead and gone is dead and gone
  Vainly wept upon. 10

Nought we place above his face
  To mark the spot,
But it shows a barren place
  In our lot. 
Hope has birth no more on earth
  Morn or even;
Hope dead lives nevermore,
  No, not in heaven.

AUTUMN VIOLETS

(Macmillan’s Magazine, November 1868.)