may know again.

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

She left a mournful void upon our hearts;
Within her home she left a vacant place:
But, as the setting sun at eve imparts
A holy twilight calm to nature's face,
So, chastened, bend we o'er the early tomb
Of one who to us all was very dear,
Whose cherished memory, like a fragrant bloom,
Will live embalmed in recollection's tear.

LINES:

WRITTEN IN THE PRAYER BOOK OF A YOUNG LADY
WHO HAD JILTED HER LOVER.

To love unbeloved--O how painful the bliss!
By such passion our heart-strings we sever:
Like raindrops in rivers, which die with a kiss,
We are lost in life's waters for ever.

VICARIOUS MARTYRS:

WRITTEN AND SENT AS A VALENTINE TO MY HEN-PECKED SCHOOLMASTER.

I wonder if thy Tyrant knows
That every peck she gives to _thee_
Brings down a perfect show'r of blows
On my companions and on me.
Martyrs vicarious are we all:
Too great a coward thou to rule
Thy wife, or let thy vengeance fall
On _her_--and so thou flog'st the school.

STANZAS:

WRITTEN AT TUNBBRIDGE WELLS IN 1854, AFTER HAVING
SEEN LADY NOEL BYRON, WIDOW OF THE POET,
LORD BYRON, WHO WAS STAYING THERE
FOR THE BENEFIT OF HER HEALTH.

Like the Moon that is waning, thou movest along--
Silent, pensive, and pale--through thy sorrow's dark Night;
For thou draw'st from the rays of our bright Sun of Song
The white coldness that lives where reflected 's the light.

And the stars which in fancy around thee I see,
As in bright golden fire they eternally shine,
Seem to cast from their splendour a lustre on thee,
As of light from thy husband's effusions divine.

In the flush of his fame were thy virtues unseen,
By his blinding effulgence of genius hid:
Could he now see thy face, with its sorrow serene,
Much might he unsay--undo much that he did,

For I see in that face all the sorrows he told--
All the sadness he meant in his marvellous lore;
And the shadows of Memory, silent and old,
Seem to come with the light from Eternity's shore.

And I feel, though the world said his spirit and thine
Were as wide as the sun and the moon are apart,
That the beams of his love o'er thy bosom still shine--
That the thought of his passion still nurtures thy heart.

TO LOUISA:

WHEN A YEAR OLD.

My sweet one, thou art starting now
In life's heart-sad