The secret of they grief I may not know,
Since that thy lips refuse the tale to tell;
Methinks, dear child, it was the sound of woe
That woke an echo in my heart's deep well.
The wail of a spirit that a-yearning gropes
In darkness for the sunlight that is fled;
A broken idol in secret wept, and hopes—
Crushed hopes—that are to thee as are the dead.
A tender memory ling'ring yet of when
Each bounding pulse beat faster with its joy;
A something that allured, and won, and then
With waking fled, and years may not destroy
The impress which it left upon thy brain
But seek thee, child, grief's ravaging to stay?
Thy tears might fall as falls the show'ring rain,
They could not wash the heart's deep scars away.
Repine thee not; shroud not they faith in gloom;
Shrink not to meet a disappointment's frown;
Away beyond the narrow bordered tomb,
Who here have borne the cross may wear the crown.
SANSON.
TO SANSON
Whisper to him, fairies, whisper—
Whisper softly in his ear
That some one is waiting, waiting,
Listening his step to hear.
Fairies, if he knew his presence
Would a demon's spell allay,
Would he heed your timid whisperings?
Would he—will he come to-day?
REVENITA.
TO REVENITA
Fairies whisper, every whisper,
In the silence of the night,
And he catches the soft murmurs
Floating in the starry light.