For both by nature are akin;
     Sorrow, the ashen fruit of sin,
     And joy, the juice of life within.

     Children of earth are these; and those
     The spirits of divine repose —
     Death radiant o’er all human woes.

     O, think what then had been thy doom,
     If homeless and without a tomb
     They had been left to haunt the gloom!

     O, think again what now they are —
     Motherly love, tho’ dim and far,
     Imaged in every lustrous star.

     For they, in their salvation, know
     No vestige of their former woe,
     While thro’ them all the heavens do flow.

     Thus art thou wedded to the skies,
     And watched by ever-loving eyes,
     And warned by yearning sympathies.

     Song

     The flower unfolds its dawning cup,
     And the young sun drinks the star-dews up,
     At eve it droops with the bliss of day,
     And dreams in the midnight far away.

     So am I in thy sole, sweet glance
     Pressed with a weight of utterance;
     Lovingly all my leaves unfold,
     And gleam to the beams of thirsty gold.

     At eve I droop, for then the swell
     Of feeling falters forth farewell; —
     At midnight I am dreaming deep,
     Of what has been, in blissful sleep.

     When—­ah! when will love’s own fight
     Wed me alike thro’ day and night,
     When will the stars with their linking charms
     Wake us in each other’s arms?

     Song

     Thou to me art such a spring
     As the Arab seeks at eve,
     Thirsty from the shining sands;
     There to bathe his face and hands,
     While the sun is taking leave,
     And dewy sleep is a delicious thing.

     Thou to me art such a dream
     As he dreams upon the grass,
     While the bubbling coolness near
     Makes sweet music in his ear;
     And the stars that slowly pass
     In solitary grandeur o’er him gleam.

     Thou to me art such a dawn
     As the dawn whose ruddy kiss
     Wakes him to his darling steed;
     And again the desert speed,
     And again the desert bliss,
     Lightens thro’ his veins, and he is gone!

     Antigone

     The buried voice bespake Antigone.

     ’O sister! couldst thou know, as thou wilt know,
     The bliss above, the reverence below,
     Enkindled by thy sacrifice for me;
     Thou wouldst at once with holy ecstasy
     Give thy warm limbs into the yearning earth. 
     Sleep, Sister! for Elysium’s dawning birth, —
     And faith will fill thee with what is to be! 
     Sleep, for the Gods are watching over thee! 
     Thy dream will steer thee to perform their will,
     As silently their influence they instil. 
     O Sister! in the sweetness