d he hear its secret cry,
The cry of the dove when the cummers die!
Thrice in the maize he turned to me,
_(Oh I saw his soul as I saw the dew!)_
But I hid my pain that he might not see--
I hid it deep as the grave is made,
Where the heart that can ache no more is laid.

3

Last night, where grows the river grass,
_(Oh the stream was dark though the moon was new!)_
I saw white Death with my lover pass,
Side by side as the troopers so.
"Give me," said Death, "thy purse well-filled,
And thy mantle-clasp which the moonbeams gild;
Save the heart which beats for thy dear sake,"
_(Oh I saw my heart as I saw the dew!)_
"All life hath given is Death's to take."
Dear God! how can I love thy day
If thou takest the heart that loves away!

ITER SUPREMUM

Oh, what a night for a soul to go!
The wind a hawk, and the fields in snow;
No screening cover of leaves in the wood,
Nor a star abroad the way to show.

Do they part in peace, soul with its clay?
Tenant and landlord, what do they say?
Was it sigh of sorrow or of release
I heard just now as the face turned gray?

What if, aghast on the shoreless main
Of Eternity, it sought again
The shelter and rest of the Isle of Time,
And knocked at the door of its house of pain!

On the tavern hearth the embers glow,
The laugh is deep and the flagons low;
But without, the wind and the trackless sky,
And night at the gates where a soul would go!

ON THE FLY-LEAF OF THE RUBAIYAT

Deem not this book a creed, 't is but the cry
Of one who fears not death, yet would not die;
Who at the table feigns with sorry jest.
To love the wine the Master's hand has pressed,
The while he loves the absent Master best,--
The bitter cry of Love for love's reply!

IN AN ALBUM

Like the south-flying swallow the summer has flown,
Like a fast-falling star, from unknown to unknown
Life flashes and falters and fails from our sight,--
Good-night, friends, good-night.

Like home-coming swallows that seek the old eaves,
Like the buds that wait patient beneath the dead leaves,
Love shall sleep in our hearts till our hands meet again,
Till then, friends, till then!

WITH APRIL ARBUTUS, TO A FRIEND

Fairer than we the woods of May,
Yet sweeter blossoms do not grow
Than these we send you from our snow,
Cramped are their stems by winter's cold,
And stai