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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.


T is not because your

heart is mine-mine only

Mine alone; It is not because you chose me, weak and lonely,


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!

It is not because the world's perplexed meaning

Grows more clear;
And the Parapets of Heaven, with angels leaning,

Seem more near ;
And Nature sings of praise with all her voices

Since yours spoke,
Since within my silent heart, that now rejoices,

Love awoke!

Nay, not even because your hand holds heart and

life ;


Soothing, hushing all its discord, making strife

Calm and still;
Teaching Trust to fold her wings, nor ever roam

From her nest;
Teaching Love that her securest, safest home

Must be Rest.

But because this human Love, though true and


Yours and mine

Has been sent by Love more tender, more complete,

More divine;
That it leads our hearts to rest at last in Heaven,

Far above you;
Do I take you as a gift that God has given-

-And I love you!


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HEN the weariness of Life is ended,

And the task of our long day is done,
And the props, on which our hearts

All have failed or broken, one by one;
Evening and our Sorrow's shadow blended,
Telling us that peace is now begun.


How far back will seem the sun's first dawning,
And those early mists so cold and grey !
Half forgotten even the toil of morning,
And the heat and burthen of the day.

Flowers that we were tending, and weeds scorning, All alike, withered and cast away.

Vain will seem the impatient heart, which waited
Toils that gathered but too quickly round;
And the childish joy so soon elated
At the path we thought none else had found;
And the foolish ardour, soon abated
By the storm which cast us to the ground.

Vain those pauses on the road, each seeming
As our final home and resting-place;
And the leaving them, while tears were streaming
Of eternal sorrow down our face;
And the hands we held, fond folly dreaming
That no future could their touch efface.

All will then be faded :-night will borrow
Stars of light to crown our perfect rest;
And the dim vague memory of faint sorrow
Just remain to show us all was best,
Then melt into a divine to-morrow :-
Oh, how poor a day to be so blest !

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