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O

UNKNOWN FRIENDS

NE line may, like a friend who knows us well,
Re-ope the wound whose smart is not forgot;
The word that doth another's sufferings tell

May drop like tears on our own anguished spot,
Where heart misjudged awaits its soothing spell.

My verse, perchance, may reach you and restore,
With lightning flash, the sleeping grief of old;
Or by that one true word-long waited for-
The sudden name of all you feel unfold,
Nor tell the eyes from whom I learnt my lore.

A

THE MISSAL

MISSAL of the first King Francis's reign,
Rusted by years, with many a yellow stain,
And blazons worn, by pious fingers prest, —
Within whose leaves, enshrined in silver rare
By some old goldsmith's art in glory drest,
Speaking his boldness and his loving care,
This faded flower found rest.

How very old it is! you plainly mark
Upon the page its sap in tracery dark.

<< Perhaps three hundred years?" What need be said?

It has but lost one shade of crimson dye;

Before its death it might have seen that flown:
Needs naught save wing of wandering butterfly
To touch the bloom-'tis gone.

It has not lost one fibre from its heart,

Nor seen one jewel from its crown depart;

The page still wrinkles where the dew once dried,
When that last morn was sad with other weeping;
Death would not kill,-only to kiss it tried,
In loving guise above its brightness creeping,
Nor blighted as it died.

A sweet but mournful scent is o'er me stealing,
As when with memory wakes long-buried feeling;
That scent from the closed casket slow ascending

Tells of long years o'er that strange herbal sped.

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Our bygone things have still some perfume blending,
And our lost loves are paths, where roses' bloom,
Sweet e'en in death, is shed.

At eve, when faint and sombre grows the air,
Perchance a lambent heart may flicker there,

Seeking an entrance to the book to find;
And when the Angelus strikes on the sky,
Praying some hand may that one page unbind,
Where all his love and homage lie,-

The flower that told his mind.

Take comfort, knight, who rode to Pavia's plain
But ne'er returned to woo your love again;

Or you, young page, whose heart rose up on high
To Mary and thy dame in mingled prayer!

This flower which died beneath some unknown eye
Three hundred years ago,—you placed it there,
And there it still shall lie.

A

LA CHARPIE

SOMBRE night, a starless sky!

Jeanne sits, her heart with weeping sore,
The cloth unwinding patiently

For soldiers wounded in the war.

Her lover to the war is gone;

His kiss yet fresh - 'twas but to-day:

Her brothers too! She sits alone:

They marched with him this morn away.

Now booms more closely on her ears
The cannon's summons, stern and loud,
"Surrender! Famine!" Then she hears
Her City's "No" in answer proud.

Her holy task at last is o'er;

Has it not brought her spirit rest?
When suddenly her humble door

By timid hand is softly pressed.

A stranger girl is standing there
Within the door, her eyes as blue

As heaven, her features pale, her hair
Of gold, her dress of sombre hue.

And these her words: -"Jeanne, have no fear,
The red cross on my arm I show;

My name and all that brings me here-
Oh, let me in!-you soon shall know.

"At home they call me Margaret;

I've wandered from the banks of Rhine For him on whom my heart is set:

Oh, let me in! Your grief is mine;

"By the same fears our hearts are torn;
Oh, by our youth, our love, our pain,
We're sisters now! leave hate and scorn
For deadly fight on yonder plain.

Together we'll our charpie weave:

For blood knows naught of colors two; Those grow alike who love and grieve: We'll weep together, I and you!"

Leaf by leaf, still nearer drawing,
Is yet too shy

All the honey-dew to gather

She holds so nigh:

So my heart was yearning wildly
Your lips to press;

'Twas your slender fingers only
I dared caress.

Through me thrilled a sudden rapture,
Then keen as woe:

What gave joy and pain such meeting?
Love — long ago.

Twelve years only- and a lover!
'Tis not common.

You too, Lady- were you feeling
Like a woman?

Did there come some thought bewildering
As, half afraid,

With your frock and with your dolly
You stood and played?

If I praised too soon a poet —
Your tiny feet,

Too soon fair, you leant and touched me
With magic sweet.

I at least have ne'er forgotten
That even-tide

When we set up house together,—
Bridegroom and bride.

Gems you dreamed of;- I dreamed over
My vow to you!

Both were older than our years were,
Both different too!

We played at the dance and dinner:
You wished it so,-

Said that proper weddings must have
Some pomp and show.

You enjoyed it as a pastime,-
I thought it true,

Told my love aloud, and whispered
"Dearest" to you.

On your cheek I ventured, dreaming,
One kiss to leave.

Play for me has all been over
Since that spring eve.

T

AU BORD DE L'EAU

O SIT and watch the wavelets as they flow,
Two, -side by side;

To see the gliding clouds that come and go,
And mark them glide;

If from low roofs the smoke is wreathing pale,
To watch it wreathe;

If flowers around breathe perfume on the gale,
To feel them breathe;

If the bee sips the honeyed fruit that glistens,
To sip the dew;

If the bird warbles while the forest listens,
To listen too;

Beneath the willow where the brook is singing,
To hear its song;

Nor feel, while round us that sweet dream is clinging,
The hours too long;

To know one only deep o'ermastering passion,-
The love we share;

To let the world go worrying in its fashion
'Without one care—

We only, while around all weary grow,
Unwearied stand,

And midst the fickle changes others know,

Love-hand in hand.