XII.

“Though wise people would call that folly,
And remonstrate with grave surprise;
We won’t mind what they say, my Effie;—­
We never professed to be wise.

“But my comforter knows a lesson
Wiser, truer than all the rest:-
That to help and to heal a sorrow,
Love and silence are always best.

XIV.

“Well, who is my comforter—­tell me? 
Effie smiles, but she will not speak;
Or look up through the long curled lashes
That are shading her rosy cheek.

XV.

“Is she thinking of talking fishes,
The blue bird, or magical tree? 
Perhaps I am thinking, my darling,
Of something that never can be.

XVI.

“You long—­don’t you, dear?—­for the Genii,
Who were slaves of lamps and of rings;
And I—­I am sometimes afraid, dear,—­
I want as impossible things.

XVII.

“But hark! there is Nurse calling Effie! 
It is bedtime, so run away;
And I must go back, or the others
Will be wondering why I stay.

XVIII.

“So good-night to my darling Effie;
Keep happy, sweetheart, and grow wise:-
There’s one kiss for her golden tresses,
And two for her sleepy eyes.”

VERSE:  UNSEEN

There are more things in Heaven and Earth, than we
Can dream of, or than nature understands;
We learn not through our poor philosophy
What hidden chords are touched by unseen hands.

The present hour repeats upon its strings
Echoes of some vague dream we have forgot;
Dim voices whisper half-remembered things,
And when we pause to listen,—­answer not.

Forebodings come:  we know not how, or whence,
Shadowing a nameless fear upon the soul,
And stir within our hearts a subtler sense,
Than light may read, or wisdom may control.

And who can tell what secret links of thought
Bind heart to heart?  Unspoken things are heard,
As if within our deepest selves was brought
The soul, perhaps, of some unuttered word.

But, though a veil of shadow hangs between
That hidden life, and what we see and hear,
Let us revere the power of the Unseen,
And know a world of mystery is near.

VERSE:  A REMEMBRANCE OF AUTUMN

Nothing stirs the sunny silence,—­
Save the drowsy humming of the bees
Round the rich, ripe peaches on the wall,
And the south wind sighing in the trees,
And the dead leaves rustling as they fall: 
While the swallows, one by one, are gathering,
All impatient to be on the wing,
And to wander from us, seeking
Their beloved Spring!