Volume Ii Part 148 (1/2)

Good-night, dear friend! I say good-night to thee Across the moonbeams, tremulous and white, Bridging all s.p.a.ce between us, it may be.

Lean low, sweet friend; it is the last good-night.

For, lying low upon my couch, and still, The fever flush evanished from my face, I heard them whisper softly, ”'Tis His will; Angels will give her happier resting-place!”

And so from sight of tears that fell like rain, And sounds of sobbing smothered close and low, I turned my white face to the window-pane, To say good-night to thee before I go.

Good-night! good-night! I do not fear the end, The conflict with the billows dark and high; And yet, if I could touch thy hand, my friend, I think it would be easier to die;

If I could feel through all the quiet waves Of my deep hair thy tender breath a-thrill, I could go downward to the place of graves With eyes a-s.h.i.+ne and pale lips smiling still;

Or it may be that, if through all the strife And pain of parting I should hear thy call, I would come singing back to sweet, sweet life, And know no mystery of death at all.

It may not be. Good-night, dear friend, good-night!

And when you see the violets again, And hear, through boughs with swollen buds a-white, The gentle falling of the April rain,

Remember her whose young life held thy name With all things holy, in its outward flight, And turn sometimes from busy haunts of men To hear again her low good-night! good-night!

Hester A. Benedict [18--

REQUIESCAT

Bury me deep when I am dead, Far from the woods where sweet birds sing; Lap me in sullen stone and lead, Lest my poor dust should feel the Spring.

Never a flower be near me set, Nor starry cup nor slender stem, Anemone nor violet, Lest my poor dust remember them.

And you--wherever you may fare-- Dearer than birds, or flowers, or dew-- Never, ah me, pa.s.s never there, Lest my poor dust should dream of you.

Rosamund Marriott Watson [1863-1911]

THE FOUR WINDS

Wind of the North, Wind of the Norland snows, Wind of the winnowed skies and sharp, clear stars-- Blow cold and keen across the naked hills, And crisp the lowland pools with crystal films, And blur the cas.e.m.e.nt-squares with glittering ice, But go not near my love.

Wind of the West, Wind of the few, far clouds, Wind of the gold and crimson sunset lands-- Blow fresh and pure across the peaks and plains, And broaden the blue s.p.a.ces of the heavens, And sway the gra.s.ses and the mountain pines, But let my dear one rest.

Wind of the East, Wind of the sunrise seas, Wind of the clinging mists and gray, harsh rains-- Blow moist and chill across the wastes of brine, And shut the sun out, and the moon and stars, And lash the boughs against the dripping eaves, Yet keep thou from my love.

But thou, sweet wind!

Wind of the fragrant South, Wind from the bowers of jasmine and of rose!-- Over magnolia glooms and lilied lakes And flowering forests come with dewy wings, And stir the petals at her feet, and kiss The low mound where she lies.

Charles Henry Luders [1858-1891]

THE KING'S BALLAD

Good my King, in your garden close, (Hark to the thrush's trilling) Why so sad when the maiden rose Love at your feet is spilling?

Golden the air and honey-sweet, Sapphire the sky, it is not meet Sorrowful faces should flowers greet, (Hark to the thrush's trilling).