or rain came down in the night,
And thunder muttered full oft,
But now the azure is bright.
And hawks are wheeling aloft.

IV.

I take the land to my breast,
In her coat with daisies fine;
For me are the hills in their best,
And all that's made is mine.

V.

Sing high! "Though the red sun dip,
There yet is a day for me;
Nor youth I count for a ship
That long ago foundered at sea.

VI.

"Did the lost love die and depart?
Many times since we have met;
For I hold the years in my heart,
And all that was--is yet.

VII.

"I grant to the king his reign;
Let us yield him homage due;
But over the lands there are twain,
O king, I must rule as you.

VIII.

"I grant to the wise his meed,
But his yoke I will not brook,
For God taught ME to read,--
He lent me the world for a book."

FRIENDSHIP.

ON A SUN-PORTRAIT OF HER HUSBAND, SENT BY HIS
WIFE TO THEIR FRIEND.

Beautiful eyes,--and shall I see no more
The living thought when it would leap from them,
And play in all its sweetness 'neath their lids?

Here was a man familiar with fair heights
That poets climb. Upon his peace the tears
And troubles of our race deep inroads made,
Yet life was sweet to him; he kept his heart
At home. Who saw his wife might well have thought,--
"God loves this man. He chose a wife for him,--
The true one!" O sweet eyes, that seem to live,
I know so much of you, tell me the rest!
Eyes full of fatherhood and tender care
For small, young children. Is a message here
That you would fain have sent, but had not time?
If such there be, I promise, by long love
And perfect friendship, by all trust that comes
Of understanding, that I will not fail,
No, nor delay to find it.
O, my heart
Will often pain me as for some strange fault,--
Some grave defect in nature,--when I think
How I, delighted, 'neath those olive-trees,
Moved to the music of the tideless main,
While, with sore weeping, in an island home
They laid that much-loved head beneath the sod,
And I did not know.

I.

I stand on the bridge where last we stood
When young leaves played at their best.
The children called us from yonder wood,
And rock-doves crooned on the nest.

II.

Ah, yet you call,--in your gladness call,--
And I hear your pattering feet;
It does not matter, matter at all,
You fatherless children sweet,--

III.

It does not matter at all to you,
Young hearts that pleasure besets;
T