RUTH.

SHE stood breast high amid the corn,
Clasp'd by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush,
Deeply ripened; - such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell,

Which were blackest none could tell,

But long lashes veil'd a light,

That had else been all too bright.

Sure, I said, heav'n did not mean, Where I reap thou should'st but glean, Lay thy sheaf adown and come,

Share my harvest and my home.

THE SEA OF DEATH.

A FRAGMENT.

Methought I saw

Life swiftly treading over endless space;
And, at her foot-print, but a bygone pace,
The ocean-past, which, with increasing wave,
Swallow'd her steps like a pursuing grave.

Sad were my thoughts that anchor'd silently
On the dead waters of that passionless sea,
Unstirr❜d by any touch of living breath:
Silence hung over it, and drowsy Death,

Like a gorged sea-bird, slept with folded wings

That wore the thin grey surface, like a veil

Over the calmness of their features pale.

And there were spring-faced cherubs that did sleep Like water-lilies on that motionless deep,

How beautiful! with bright unruffled hair
On sleek unfretted brows, and eyes that were
Buried in marble tombs, a pale eclipse!

And smile-bedimpled cheeks, and pleasant lips,
Meekly apart, as if the soul intense

Spake out in dreams of its own innocence :

And so they lay in loveliness, and kept

The birth-night of their peace, that Life e'en wept

With very envy of their happy fronts;

For there were neighbour brows scarr'd by the brunts

Of strife and sorrowing - where Care had set

His crooked autograph, and marr'd the jet

Of glossy locks, with hollow eyes forlorn,

And lips that curl'd in bitterness and scorn
Wretched, as they had breathed of this world's pain,
And so bequeath'd it to the world again

Through the beholder's heart in heavy sighs,

So lay they garmented in torpid light,
Under the pall of a transparent night,

Like solemn apparitions lull'd sublime

To everlasting rest, and with them Time

Slept, as he sleeps upon the silent face

Of a dark dial in a sunless place.

BALLAD.

SHE'S up and gone, the graceless Girl!
And robb'd my failing years;

My blood before was thin and cold
But now 'tis turn'd to tears;

My shadow falls upon my grave,
So near the brink I stand,

She might have staid a little yet,
And led me by the hand!

Aye, call her on the barren moor,
And call her on the hill,

'Tis nothing but the heron's cry,
And plovers answer shrill;

My child is flown on wilder wings,
Than they have ever spread,
And I may even walk a waste

That widen'd when she fled.