IV. This name, whoever chance to call, V. Is there a leaf that greenly grows VI. Is there a word, or jest, or game, And so to me my very name Assumes a mournful sound. VII. My brother gave that name to me That life had any pain. VIII. No shade was on us then, save one Of chesnuts from the hill And through the wood our laugh did run As part thereof! The mirth being done, He calls me by it still. IX. Nay, do not smile! I hear in it What none of you can hear! X. I hear the birth-day's noisy bliss, XI. And voices, which to name me, aye To some I never more can say XII. My name to me a sadness wears; No murmurs cross my mind: Now God be thanked for these thick tears, Which show, of those departed years, Sweet memories left behind! XIII. Now God be thanked for years enwrought With love which softens yet! Now God be thanked for every thought Which is so tender, it hath caught Earth's guerdon of regret! XIV. The earth may sadden, not remove, And e'en that mortal grief shall prove And lead us nearer Heaven. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. Music. HARK! Music speaks from out the woods and streams; Great Memory hoards it 'midst her golden themes; Whatever thing doth bring a joy unstained "Sing then, divine one!"-Thus a lover sighed And checked the half-born music on her tongue. Sing, maiden,-gentle maiden! With a heart not overladen, Give thy voice its way divine; Let thine eyes, sweet spirits, shine; Tell of those whose hopes are wrecked Virgin dreams in ruin ended; All the pleasure, all the pain That bideth from the world's disdain. Full and overflown with pleasure; Sing, with smiles and dimpling mouth, Opening like the sunny South, When it breathes amongst the roses, And a thousand thousand sweets discloses. Sing, fair child of music, sing Like love-hope-sorrow-any-thing; Not a wind, but just a breeze Moving in the citron trees; Like the first sweet murmur creeping By maiden in the silence heard, In its matchless strength rejoice; So it burst its fetters strong, BARRY CORNWALL. To the Evening Wind. SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, Nor I alone-a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fulness of delight; And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound |