“Then, through a special mercy
I offer you this grace,—­
You may seek him who mourns you
And look upon his face,
And speak to him of comfort
For one short minute’s space.

“But when that time is ended,
Return here, and remain
A thousand years in torment,
A thousand years in pain: 
Thus dearly must you purchase
The comfort he will gain.”

* * *

The Lime-trees’ shade at evening
Is spreading broad and wide;
Beneath their fragrant arches,
Pace slowly, side by side,
In low and tender converse,
A Bridegroom and his Bride.

The night is calm and stilly,
No other sound is there
Except their happy voices: 
What is that cold bleak air
That passes through the Lime-trees
And stirs the Bridegroom’s hair?

While one low cry of anguish,
Like the last dying wail
Of some dumb, hunted creature,
Is borne upon the gale:-
Why does the Bridegroom shudder
And turn so deathly pale?

* * *

Near Purgatory’s entrance
The radiant Angels wait;
It was the great St. Michael
Who closed that gloomy gate,
When the poor wandering spirit
Came back to meet her fate.

* * *

“Pass on,” thus spoke the Angel: 
“Heaven’s joy is deep and vast;
Pass on, pass on, poor Spirit,
For Heaven is yours at last;
In that one minute’s anguish
Your thousand years have passed.”

VERSE:  A CONTRAST

Can you open that ebony Casket? 
Look, this is the key:  but stay,
Those are only a few old letters
Which I keep,—­to burn some day.

Yes, that Locket is quaint and ancient;
But leave it, dear, with the ring,
And give me the little Portrait
Which hangs by a crimson string.

I have never opened that Casket
Since, many long years ago,
It was sent me back in anger
By one whom I used to know.

But I want you to see the Portrait: 
I wonder if you can trace
A look of that smiling creature
Left now in my faded face.

It was like me once; but remember
The weary relentless years,
And Life, with its fierce, brief Tempests,
And its long, long rain of tears.

Is it strange to call it my Portrait? 
Nay, smile, dear, for well you may,
To think of that radiant Vision
And of what I am to-day.

With restless, yet confident longing
How those blue eyes seem to gaze
Into deep and exhaustless Treasures,
All hid in the coming days.

With that trust which leans on the Future,
And counts on her promised store,
Until she has taught us to tremble
And hope,—­but to trust no more.

How that young, light heart would have pitied
Me now—­if her dreams had shown
A quiet and weary woman
With all her illusions flown.

Yet I—­who shall soon be resting,
And have passed the hardest part,
Can look back with a deeper pity
On that young unconscious heart.