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HOME AT LAST.

HILD, do not fear;

We shall reach our home to-night,
For the sky is clear,

And the waters bright;

And the breezes have scarcely strength

To unfold that little cloud,

That like a shroud

Spreads out its fleecy length;

Then have no fear,

As we cleave our silver way
Through the waters clear.

Fear not, my child!

Though the waves are white and high,

And the storm blows wild

Through the gloomy sky;

On the edge of the western sea,
See that line of golden light,

Is the haven bright

Where home is awaiting thee.
Where, this peril past,

We shall rest from our stormy voyage
In peace at last.

Be not afraid;

But give me thy hand, and see

How the waves have made

A cradle for thee.

Night is come, dear, and we shall rest; So turn from the angry skies,

And close thine eyes,

And lay thy head on my breast:

Child, do not weep;

In the calm, cold, purple depths
There we shall sleep.

UNEXPRESSED.

WELLS within the soul of

every

Artist

More than all his effort can express;

And he knows the best remains unut

tered;

Sighing at what we call his success.

Vainly he may strive; he dare not tell us
All the sacred mysteries of the skies:
Vainly he may strive; the deepest beauty
Cannot be unveiled to mortal eyes.

And the more devoutly that he listens,
And the holier message that is sent,

Still the more his soul must struggle vainly,

Bowed beneath a noble discontent.

No great Thinker ever lived, and taught you All the wonder that his soul received;

No true Painter ever set on canvas

All the glorious vision he conceived.

No Musician ever held your spirit

Charmed and bound in his melodious chains, But be sure he heard, and strove to render, Feeble echoes of celestial strains.

No real Poet ever wove in numbers
All his dream; but the diviner part,
Hidden from all the world, spake to him only
In the voiceless silence of his heart.

So with Love: for Love and Art united
Are twin mysteries; different yet the same:
Poor indeed would be the love of any
Who could find its full and perfect name.

Love may strive, but vain is the endeavour
All its boundless riches to unfold;

Still its tenderest, truest secret lingers

Ever in its deepest depths untold.

Things of Time have voices: speak and perish. Art and Love speak—but their words must be Like sighings of illimitable forests,

And waves of an unfathomable sea.

BECAUSE.

T is not because your heart is mine-mine only

Mine alone;

It is not because you chose me, weak and lonely,

For your own;

Not because the earth is fairer, and the skies

Spread above you

Are more radiant for the shining of your eyes-
That I love you

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