Her lips began to scorch, That juice was wormwood to her tongue, She loathed the feast: Writhing as one possessed she leaped and sung, Rent all her robe, and wrung Her hands in lamentable haste, And beat her breast. Her locks streamed like the torch Borne by a racer at full speed, Or like the mane of horses in their flight, Or like an eagle when she stems the light Straight toward the sun, Or like a caged thing freed, Or like a flying flag when armies run.

Swift fire spread through her veins, knocked at her heart, Met the fire smouldering there And overbore its lesser flame; She gorged on bitterness without a name: Ah! fool, to choose such part Of soul-consuming care! Sense failed in the mortal strife: Like the watch-tower of a town Which an earthquake shatters down, Like a lightning-stricken mast, Like a wind-uprooted tree Spun about, Like a foam-topped water-spout Cast down headlong in the sea, She fell at last; Pleasure past and anguish past, Is it death or is it life?

Life out of death. That night long Lizzie watched by her, Counted her pulse's flagging stir, Felt for her breath, Held water to her lips, and cooled her face With tears and fanning leaves: But when the first birds chirped about their eaves, And early reapers plodded to the place Of golden sheaves, And dew-wet grass Bowed in the morning winds so brisk to pass, And new buds with new day Opened of cup-like lilies on the stream, Laura awoke as from a dream, Laughed in the innocent old way, Hugged Lizzie but not twice or thrice; Her gleaming locks showed not one thread of gray, Her breath was sweet as May, And light danced in her eyes.

Days, weeks, months, years Afterwards, when both were wives With children of their own; Their mother-hearts beset with fears, Their lives bound up in tender lives; Laura would call the little ones And tell them of her early prime, Those pleasant days long gone Of not-returning time: Would talk about the haunted glen, The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men, Their fruits like honey to the throat, But poison in the blood; (Men sell not such in any town;) Would tell them how her sister stood In deadly peril to do her good, And win the fiery antidote: Then joining hands to little hands Would bid them cling together, "For there is no friend like a sister, In calm or stormy weather, To cheer one on the tedious way, To fetch one if one goes astray, To lift one if one totters down, To strengthen whilst one stands."

IN THE ROUND TOWER AT JHANSI,

June 8, 1857.

A hundred, a thousand to one; even so; Not a hope in the world remained: The swarming, howling wretches below Gained and gained and gained.

Skene looked at his pale young wife:-- "Is the time come?"--"The time is come!"-- Young, strong, and so full of life: The agony struck them dumb.

Close his arm about her now, Close her cheek to his, Close the pistol to her brow-- God forgive them this!

"Will it hurt much?"--"No, mine own: I wish I could bear the pang for both." "I wish I could bear the pang alone: Courage, dear, I am not loth."

Kiss and kiss: "It is not pain Thus to kiss and die. One kiss more."--"And yet one again."-- "Good by."--"Good by."

Note.--I retain this little poem, not as historically accurate, but as written and published before I heard the supposed facts of its first verse contradicted.

DREAM-LAND.

Where sunless rivers weep Their waves into the deep, She sleeps a charmèd sleep: Awake her not. Led by a single star, She came from very far To seek where shadows are Her pleasant lot.

She left the rosy morn, She left the fields of corn, For twilight cold and lorn And water springs. Through sleep, as through a veil, She sees the sky look pale, And hears the nightingale That sadly sings.

Rest, rest, a perfect rest Shed over brow and breast; Her face is toward the west, The purple land. She cannot see the grain Ripening on hill and plain; She cannot feel the rain Upon her hand.

Rest, rest, forevermore Upon a mossy shore; Rest, rest at the heart's core Till time shall cease: Sleep that no pain shall wake, Night that no morn shall break, Till joy shall overtake Her perfect peace.

AT HOME.

When I was dead, my spirit turned To seek the much-frequented house I passed the door, and saw my friends Feasting beneath green orange-boughs; From hand to hand they pushed the wine, They sucked the pulp of plum and peach; They sang, they jested, and they laughed, For each was loved of each.

I listened to their honest chat: Said one: "To-morrow we shall be Plod plod along the featureless sands, And coasting miles and miles of sea." Said one: "Before the turn of tide We will achieve the eyrie-seat." Said one: "To-morrow shall be like To-day, but much more sweet."

"To-morrow," said they, strong with hope, And dwelt upon the pleasant way: "To-morrow," cried they, one and all, While no one spoke of yesterday. Their life stood full at blessed noon; I, only I, had passed away: "To-morrow and to-day," they cried; I was of yesterday.

I shivered comfortless, but cast No chill across the table-cloth; I, all-forgotten, shivered, sad To stay, and yet to part how loth: I passed from the familiar room, I who from love had passed away, Like the remembrance of a guest That tarrieth but a day.

FROM SUNSET TO STAR RISE.

Go from me, summer friends, and tarry not: I am no summer friend, but wintry cold, A silly sheep benighted from the fold, A sluggard with a thorn-choked garden plot. Take counsel, sever from my lot your lot, Dwell in your pleasant places, hoard your gold; Lest you with me should shiver on the wold, Athirst and hungering on a barren spot.

For I have hedged me with a thorny hedge, I live alone, I look to die alone: Yet sometimes when a wind sighs through the sedge, Ghosts of my buried years and friends come back, My heart goes sighing after swallows flown On sometime summer's unreturning track.

LOVE FROM THE NORTH.

I had a love in soft south land, Beloved through April far in May; He waited on my lightest breath, And never dared to say me nay.

He saddened if my cheer was sad, But gay he grew if I was gay; We never differed on a hair, My yes his yes, my nay his nay.

The wedding hour was come, the aisles Were flushed with sun and flowers that day; I pacing balanced in my thoughts,-- "It's quite too late to think of nay."--

My bridegroom answered in his turn, Myself had almost answered "yea": When through the flashing nave I heard. A struggle and resounding "nay."

Bridemaids and bridegroom shrank in fear, But I stood high who stood at bay: "And if I answer yea, fair Sir, What man art thou to bar with nay?"

He was a strong man from the north, Light-locked, with eyes of dangerous gray: "Put yea by for another time In which I will not say thee nay."

He took me in his strong white arms, He bore me on his horse away O'er crag, morass, and hair-breadth pass, But never asked me yea or nay.

He made me fast with book and bell, With links of love he makes me stay; Till now I've neither heart nor power Nor will nor wish to say him nay.

WINTER RAIN.

Every valley drinks, Every dell and hollow: Where the kind rain sinks and sinks, Green of Spring will follow.

Yet a lapse of weeks Buds will burst their edges, Strip their wool-coats, glue-coats, streaks, In the woods and hedges;

Weave a bower of love For birds to meet each other, Weave a canopy above Nest and egg and mother.

But for fattening rain We should have no flowers, Never a bud or leaf again But for soaking showers;

Never a mated bird In the rocking tree-tops, Never indeed a flock or herd To graze upon the lea-crops.

Lambs so woolly white, Sheep the sun-bright leas on, They could have no grass to bite But for rain in season.

We should find no moss In the shadiest places, Find no waving meadow-grass Pied with broad-eyed daisies;

But miles of barren sand, With never a son or daughter, Not a lily on the land, Or lily on the water.

A DIRGE.

Why were you born when the snow was falling? You should have come to the cuckoo's calling, Or when grapes are green in the cluster, Or, at least, when lithe swallows muster For their far off flying From summer dying.

Why did you die when the lambs were cropping? You should have died at the apples' dropping, When the grasshopper comes to trouble, And the wheat-fields are sodden stubble, And all winds go sighing For sweet things dying.

CONFLUENTS

As rivers seek the sea, Much more deep than they, So my soul seeks thee Far away: As running rivers moan On their course alone So I moan Left alone.

As the delicate rose To the sun's sweet strength Doth herself unclose, Breadth and length: So spreads my heart to thee Unveiled utterly, I to thee Utterly.

As morning dew exhales Sunwards pure and free, So my spirit fails After thee: As dew leaves not a trace On the green earth's face; I, no trace On thy face.

Its goal the river knows, Dewdrops find a way, Sunlight cheers the rose In her day: Shall I, lone sorrow past, Find thee at the last? Sorrow past, Thee at last?

NOBLE SISTERS.

"Now did you mark a falcon, Sister dear, sister dear, Flying toward my window In the morning cool and clear? With jingling bells about her neck, But what beneath her wing? It may have been a ribbon, Or it may have been a ring."-- "I marked a falcon swooping At the break of day: And for your love, my sister dove, I 'frayed the thief away."--