Forth from the irreparable tomb,

Or as a martyr on his funeral pile
Heaps up the burdens other men do bear
Through years of segregated care,
And takes the total load
Upon his shoulders broad,
And steps from earth to God.

O, to think, through good or ill,
Whatever I am you'll love me still;
O, to think, though dull I be,
You that are so grand and free,
You that are so bright and gay,
Will pause to hear me when I will,
As though my head were gray;

A single self reposes,

The nevermore with the evermore

Above me mingles and closes;

As my soul lies out like the basking hound,
And wherever it lies seems happy ground,
And when, awakened by some sweet sound,
A dreamy eye uncloses,

I see a blooming world around,
And I lie amid primroses,-

Years of sweet primroses,

Springs of fresh primroses,

Springs to be, and springs for me

Of distant dim primroses.

O, to lie a-dream, a-dream,

To feel I may dream and to know you deem

My work is done forever,

And the palpitating fever,

That gains and loses, loses and gains,

And she,

Perhaps, O even she

May look as she looked when I knew her
In those old days of childish sooth,

Ere my boyhood dared to woo her.

I will not seek nor sue her,

For I'm neither fonder nor truer

Than when she slighted my lovelorn youth,
My giftless, graceless, guinealess truth,
And I only lived to rue her.

But I'll never love another,

And, in spite of her lovers and lands,
She shall love me yet, my brother!

As a child that holds by his mother,
While his mother speaks his praises,
Holds with eager hands,

And ruddy and silent stands

In the ruddy and silent daisies,
And hears her bless her boy,
And lifts a wondering joy,
So I'll not seek nor sue her,
But I'll leave my glory to woo her,
And I'll stand like a child beside,
And from behind the purple pride

I'll lift my eyes unto her,

And I shall not be denied.

And you will love her, brother dear,

And perhaps next year you 'll bring me here

All through the balmy April tide,

And she will trip like spring by my side, And be all the birds to my ear.

And here all three we'll sit in the sun,
And see the Aprils one by one,
Primrosed Aprils on and on,
Till the floating prospect closes

In golden glimmers that rise and rise,
And perhaps are gleams of Paradise,
And perhaps too far for mortal eyes,
New springs of fresh primroses,
Springs of earth's primroses,

Springs to be, and springs for me
Of distant dim primroses.

DIVIDED.

SYDNEY DOBELL.

I.

AN empty sky, a world of heather,
Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom:
We two among them wading together,
Shaking out honey, treading perfume.

Crowds of bees are giddy with clover,
Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet:
Crowds of larks at their matins hang over,
Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet.
Flusheth the rise with her purple favor,
Gloweth the cleft with her golden ring,
"Twixt the two brown butterflies waver,
Lightly settle, and sleepily swing.

We two walk till the purple dieth,

And short dry grass under foot is brown,.

But one little streak at a distance lieth
Green, like a ribbon, to prank the down.

II.

Over the grass we stepped unto it,

And God, He knoweth how blithe we were! Never a voice to bid us eschew it;

Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair!

Hey the green ribbon! we kneeled beside it,
We parted the grasses dewy and sheen:
Drop over drop there filtered and slided

A tiny bright beck that trickled between.

Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sung to us,
Light was our talk as of faery bells-
Faery wedding-bells faintly rung to us,
Down in their fortunate parallels.

Hand in hand, while the sun peered over,
We lapped the grass on that youngling spring,
Swept back its rushes, smoothed its clover,
And said, "Let us follow it westering."

III.

A dappled sky, a world of meadows;
Circling above us the black rooks fly,
Forward, backward: lo, their dark shadows
Flit on the blossoming tapestry-

Flit on the beck-for her long grass parteth,
As hair from a maid's bright eyes blown back;

And lo, the sun like a lover darteth

His flattering smile on her wayward track.

Sing on! we sing in the glorious weather,
Till one steps over the tiny strand,
So narrow, in sooth, that still together
On either brink we go hand in hand.

The beck grows wider, the hands must sever,
On either margin, our songs all done,
We move apart, while she singeth ever,

Taking the course of the stooping sun.

He prays, "Come over "I may not follow;
I cry,
"Return "--but he cannot come:
We speak, we laugh, but with voices hollow;

Our hands are hanging, our hearts are numb.

IV.

A breathing sigh-a sigh for answer;
A little talking of outward things:
The careless beck is a merry dancer,

Keeping sweet time to the air she sings.

A little pain when the beck grows wider"Cross to me now, for her wavelets swell: "I may not cross "-and the voice beside her Faintly reacheth, though heeded well.

No backward path; ah! no returning:
No second crossing that ripple's flow: