Nor to have drained the cup of youth,
To the sweet maddening lees;
Nor, rapt by dreams of Hidden Truth,
To have spurned all these;—
Pleasure, Denial, touch not him
Whose body and mind are dim.
Not one of all these things shall I
For comfort, use, or strength,
When the sure hour, when I shall die,
Takes me at length;
One thought alone shall bring redress
For that great heaviness:—
That I have held each struggling soul
As of one kin and blood,
That one sure link doth all control
To one close brotherhood;
For who the race of men doth love,
Loves also Him above.
THREE BRETON POEMS.
I.
THE ORPHAN GIRL OF LANNION.
In seventeen hundred and eighty-three,
To Lannion came dole and misery.
Mignon an orphan, as good as fair,
Served in the little hostelry there.
One darkling night, when the hour was late,
Two travellers rang at the outer gate.
"Quick, hostess! supper, red wine, and food
We have money to pay, so that all be good."