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Can you bear me to talk with you frankly? There | Go measure yourself by her standard. Look back is much that my heart would say ;
on the years that have fled ; And you know we were children together, have Then ask, if you need, why she tells you that the quarreled and “made up” in play.
love of her girlhood is dead ! And so, for the sake of old friendship, I venture She cannot look down to her lover : her love like to tell you the truth,
her soul, aspires ; As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might He must stand by her side, or above her, who in our earlier youth.
would kindle its holy fires.
Now farewell! For the sake of old friendship I Five summers ago, when you wooed her, you
have ventured to tell you the truth, stood on the selfsame plane,
As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might Face to face, heart to heart, never dreaming your
in our earlier youth. souls could be parted again.
JULIA C. R. DORR.
ALAS! HOW LIGHT A CAUSE MAY MOVE
She loved you at that time entirely, in the bloom
of her life's early May;
not love you to-day.
FROM " THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM."
Nature never stands still, nor souls either : they
ever go up or go down ;
has it been with your own?
ALAS ! how light a cause may move
She has struggled and yearned and aspired,
grown purer and wiser each year :
nous atmosphere !
For she whom you crowned with fresh roses,
down yonder, five summers ago,
and ourselves is to grow.
Her eyes they are sweeter and calmer ; but their
vision is clearer as well :
a silver bell.
A something light as air,
A breath, a touch like this has shaken !
As though its waters ne'er could sever,
Breaks into floods that part forever.
Her face has the look worn by those who with
God and his angels have talked :
the spirits with whom she has walked.
And you ? Have you aimed at the highest? Have
you, too, aspired and prayed ?
evil unsullied ? Have you
Have you, too, grown purer and wiser, as the
months and the years have rolled on?
triumph of victory won ?
O you, that have the charge of Love,
Keep him in rosy bondage bound,
He sits, with flowerets fettered round;
Is found beneath far Eastern skies,
Lose all their glory when he flies !
Nay, hear me! The truth cannot harm you.
When to-day in her presence you stood,
clean as that of her womanhood ?
Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot);
And her warm white neck in its golden chain ; At Paris it was, at the opera there ;
And her full soft hair, just tied in a knot, And she looked like a queen in a book that
And falling loose again ; night, With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair,
And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast; And the brooch on her breast so bright.
(O the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower !)
And the one bird singing alone to his nest ; Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,
And the one star over the tower.
I thought of our little quarrels and strife,
And the letter that brought me back my ring ;
And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, The moon on the tower slept soft as snow;
Such a very little thing!
Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over :
And I thought, “ Were she only living still, The emperor there, in his box of state,
How I could forgive her and love her!"
And I swear, as I thoughtof her thus, in that hour, Where his eagles in bronze had been.
And of how, after all, old things are best,
That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower The empress, too, had a tear in her eye :
Which she used to wear in her breast. You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again,
It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, For one moment, under the old blue sky,
It made me creep, and it made me cold ! To the old glad life in Spain.
Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet
Where a mummy is half unrolled. Well ! there in our front-row box we sat
And I turned and looked : she was sitting there, Together, my bride betrothed and I; My gaze was fixed on my opera hat,
In a dim box over the stage ; and drest And hers on the stage hard by.
In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair,
And that jasmine in her breast !
I was here, and she was there ;
And the glittering horseshoe curved between !So confident of her charm !
From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair
And her sumptuous scornful mien,
The marchioness there, of Carabas,
She talked of politics or prayers,
Of battles or the last new bonnets;
By candlelight, at twelve o'clock -
To me it mattered not a tittle
Through sunny May, through sultry June,
I loved her with a love eternal ;
I spoke her praises to the moon,
I wrote them to the Sunday Journal.
My mother laughed ; I soon found out
That ancient ladies have no feeling : And I think, in the lives of most women and men, My father frowned ; but how should gout There's a moment when all would go smooth
See any happiness in kneeling ?
If only the dead could find out when
To come back and be forgiven.
But 0, the smell of that jasmine flower !
And O, that music! and 0, the way
Non ti scordar di me!
She was the daughter of a dean,
Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic ;
Whose color was extremely hectic;
Had fed the parish with her bounty ;
And lord-lieutenant of the county.
Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed.
Much must be borne which it is hard to bear; Much given away which it were sweet to keep. God help us all! who need, indeed, his care : And yet, I know the Shepherd loves his sheep.
My little boy begins to babble now
As, rising on its purple wing, The insect-queen of Eastern spring, O’er emerald meadows of Kashmeer, Invites the young pursuer near, And leads him on from flower to flower, A weary chase and wasted hour, Then leaves him, as it soars on high, With panting heart and tearful eye ; So Beauty lures the full-grown child, With hue as bright, and wing as wild ; A chase of idle hopes and fears, Begun in folly, closed in tears. If won, to equal ills betrayed, Woe waits the insect and the maid : A life of pain, the loss of peace,
, From infant's play and man's caprice ; The lovely toy, so fiercely sought, Hath lost its charm by being caught; For every touch that wooed its stay Hath brushed its brighest hues away, Till, charm and hue and beauty gone, 'T is left to fly or fall alone. With wounded wing or bleeding breast, Ah ! where shall either victim rest?
But when he sleeps and smiles upon my knee,
Who might have been--ah, what I dare not think!