She dashed it in scorn to the marble-paved ground, Where it fell mute as snow; and a weird music-sound Crept up, like a chill, up the aisles long and dim,— As the fiends tried to mock at the choristers' hymn, And moaned in the trying.

FOURTH PART.

ONORA looketh listlessly adown the garden walk: "I am weary, O my mother, of thy tender talk! I am weary of the trees a-waving to and fro—

Of the steadfast skies above, the running brooks

All things are the same but I ;-only I am dreary; And, mother, of my dreariness, behold me very weary.

"Mother, brother, pull the flowers I planted in the

spring

And smiled to think I should smile more upon their

gathering.

The bees will find out other flowers-oh, pull them, dearest mine,

And carry them and carry me before St. Agnes' shrine."

—Whereat they pulled the summer flowers she planted in the spring,

And her and them, all mournfully, to Agnes' shrine did bring.

VOL. II.-12

She looked up to the pictured saint, and gently shook her head

"The picture is too calm for me-too calm for me," she said:

"The little flowers we brought with us, before it we

may lay,

For those are used to lock at heaven,-but I must turn away

Because no sinner under sun, can dare or bear to gaze On God's or angel's holiness, except in Jesu's face."

She spoke with passion after pause--" And were it wisely done,

If we who cannot gaze above, should walk the earth alone?-

If we whose virtue is so weak, should have a will so

strong,

And stand blind on the rocks, to choose the right path from the wrong?

To choose perhaps a love-lit hearth, instead of love and Heaven,

A single rose, for a rose-tree, which beareth seven times seven?

A rose that droppeth from the hand, that fadeth in the

breast,

Until, in grieving for the worst, we learn what is the

best!"

Then breaking into tears," Dear God," she cried, "and must we see

All blissful things depart from us, or ere we go to THEE?

We cannot guess thee in the wood, or hear thee in

the wind?

Our cedars must fall round us, ere we see the light

behind?

Ay, sooth, we feel too strong in weal, to need thee on that road;

But wo being come, the soul is dumb, that crieth not on' God.""

Her mother could not speak for tears; she ever mused

thus

"The bees will find out other flowers, but what is left for us?"

But her young brother stayed his sobs, and knelt beside her knee,

"Thou sweetest sister in the world, hast never a word for me?"

She passed her hand across his face, she pressed it on his cheek,

So tenderly, so tenderly-she needed not to speak.

The wreath which lay on shrine that day, at vespers bloomed no more—

The woman fair who placed it there, had died an hour before!

Both perished mute, for lack of root, earth's nourishment to reach ;

O reader, breathe (the ballad saith) some sweetness out of each!

LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP.

A ROMANCE OF THE AGE.

A poet writes to his friend. Place-A room in Wycombe Hall.
Time-Late in the evening.

DEAR my friend and fellow-student, I would lean my spirit o'er you;

Down the purple of this chamber, tears should scarcely stain at will!

I am humbled who was humble! Friend,-I bow my head before you!

You should lead me to my peasants !—but their faces are too still.

There's a lady--an earl's daughter; she is proud and she is noble;

And she treads the crimson carpet, and she breathes the perfumed air;

And a kingly blood sends glances up her princely eye to trouble,

And the shadow of a monarch's crown is sweeping in

her hair.

She has halls and she has castles, and the resonant steam-eagles

Follow far on the directing of her floating dove-like hand

With a thunderous vapor trailing, underneath the starry vigils,

So to mark upon the blasted heaven, the measure of her land.

There be none of England's daughters, who can show a prouder presence;

Upon princely suitors suing, she has looked in her

disdain :

She was sprung of English nobles, I was born of English peasants;

What was I that I should love her-save for feeling of the pain?

I was only a poor poet, made for singing at her case

ment,

As the finches or the thrushes, while she thought of other things.

Oh, she walked so high above me, she appeared to my

abasement,

In her lovely silken murmur, like an angel clad in

wings!

Many vassals bow before her, as her chariot sweeps their door-ways;

She has blest their little children,-as a priest or queen were she!