Vain? Let it be so! Nature was her teacher. Saying, unsaddened,- This shall soon be faded, This her poor book is full of saddest follies, Of tearful smiles and laughing melancholies, With summer roses twined and wintry hollies. In the strange crossing of uncertain chances, Somewhere, beneath some maiden's tear-dimmed glances May fall her little book of dreams and fancies. Sweet sister! Iris, who shall never name thee, Spare her, I pray thee! If the maid is sleeping, UNDER THE VIOLETS. HER hands are cold; her face is white; And lay her where the violets blow. But not beneath a graven stone, To plead for tears with alien eyes; Shall say, that here a maiden lies And gray old trees of hugest limb Shall wheel their circling shadows round To make the scorching sunlight dim That drinks the greenness from the ground, And drop their dead leaves on her mound. When o'er their boughs the squirrels run, The acorns and the chestnuts fall, For her the morning choir shall sing When, turning round their dial-track, Eastward the lengthening shadows pass, Her little mourners, clad in black, The crickets, sliding through the grass, Shall pipe for her an evening mass. At last the rootlets of the trees Shall find the prison where she lies, If any, born of kindlier blood, Should ask, What maiden lies below? Say only this: A tender bud, That tried to blossom in the snow, Lies withered where the violets blow. THE PROMISE. NOT charity we ask, Nor yet thy gift refuse; Please thy light fancy with the easy task Only to look and choose. The little-heeded toy That wins thy treasured gold May be the dearest memory, holiest joy, Of coming years untold. Heaven rains on every heart, But there its showers divide, The drops of mercy choosing as they part The dark or glowing side. |