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Beloved,
Whose feet so little while ago

Trod the same way-side dust with mine,
And now up paths I do not
know
Speed, without sound or sign?

What can I do? The perfect life
All fresh and fair and beautiful
Has
opened its wide arms to thee;
Thy cup is over-brimmed and full;

Nothing remains for me.
I used to do so many things,--
Love thee and chide thee and caress;

Brush little straws from off thy way,
Tempering with my poor
tenderness
The heat of thy short day.
Not much, but very sweet to give;
And it is grief of griefs to bear

That all these ministries are o'er,
And thou, so happy, Love,
elsewhere,
Never can need me more:--
And I can do for thee but this
(Working on blindly, knowing not
If I
may give thee pleasure so):
Out of my own dull, burdened lot
I can
arise, and go
To sadder lives and darker homes,
A messenger, dear heart, from thee

Who wast on earth a comforter,
And say to those who welcome me,

I am sent forth by her.
Feeling the while how good it is
To do thy errands thus, and think
It
may be, in the blue, far space,
Thou watchest from the heaven's
brink,--
A smile upon my face.
And when the day's work ends with day,
And star-eyed evening,
stealing in,
Waves a cool hand to flying noon,
And restless, surging
thoughts begin,
Like sad bells out of tune,
I'll pray: "Dear Lord, to whose great love
Nor bound nor limit line is
set,
Give to my darling, I implore,
Some new sweet joy not tasted
yet,
For I can give no more."
And with the words my thoughts shall climb
With following feet the
heavenly stair
Up which thy steps so lately sped,
And, seeing thee
so happy there,
Come back half comforted.

THE CRADLE TOMB IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
A little, rudely sculptured bed,
With shadowing folds of marble lace,

And quilt of marble, primly spread
And folded round a baby's face.
Smoothly the mimic coverlet,
With royal blazonries bedight,
Hangs,
as by tender fingers set
And straightened for the last good-night.
And traced upon the pillowing stone
A dent is seen, as if to bless

The quiet sleep some grieving one
Had leaned, and left a soft
impress.
It seems no more than yesterday
Since the sad mother down the stair

And down the long aisle stole away,
And left her darling sleeping
there.
But dust upon the cradle lies,
And those who prized the baby so,

And laid her down to rest with sighs,
Were turned to dust long years
ago.
Above the peaceful pillowed head
Three centuries brood, and
strangers peep
And wonder at the carven bed,--
But not unwept the
baby's sleep,
For wistful mother-eyes are blurred
With sudden mists, as lingerers
stay,
And the old dusts are roused and stirred
By the warm
tear-drops of to-day.
Soft, furtive hands caress the stone,
And hearts, o'erleaping place and
age,
Melt into memories, and own
A thrill of common parentage.
Men die, but sorrow never dies;
The crowding years divide in vain,

And the wide world is knit with ties
Of common brotherhood in pain;
Of common share in grief and loss,
And heritage in the immortal
bloom
Of Love, which, flowering round its cross,
Made beautiful a

baby's tomb.
"OF SUCH AS I HAVE."
Love me for what I am, Love. Not for sake
Of some imagined thing
which I might be,
Some brightness or some goodness not in me,

Born of your hope, as dawn to eyes that wake
Imagined morns before
the morning break.
If I, to please you (whom I fain would please),

Reset myself like new key to old tune,
Chained thought, remodelled
action, very soon
My hand would slip from yours, and by degrees

The loving, faulty friend, so close to-day,
Would vanish, and another
take her place,--
A stranger with a stranger's scrutinies,
A new
regard, an unfamiliar face.
Love me for what I am, then, if you may;

But, if you cannot,--love me either way.
A PORTRAIT.
All sweet and various things do lend themselves
And blend and
intermix in her rare soul,
As chorded notes, which were untuneful
else,
Clasp each the other in a perfect whole.
Within her spirit, dawn, all dewy-pearled,
Seems held and folded in
by golden noons,
While past the sunshine gleams a further world
Of
deep star-spaces and mysterious moons.
Like widths of blowing ocean wet with spray,
Like breath of early
blooms at morning caught,
Like cool airs on the cheek of heated day,

Come the fair emanations of her thought.
Her movement, like the curving of a vine,
Seems an unerring accident
of grace,
And like a flower's the subtle change and shine
And
meaning of her brightly tranquil face.
And like a tree, unconscious of her shade,
She spreads her helpful
branches everywhere
For wandering bird or bee, nor is afraid
Too

many guests shall crowd to harbor there.
For she is kinder than all others are,
And weak things, sad things,
gather where she dwells,
To reach and taste her strength and drink of
her,
As thirsty creatures of clear water-wells.
Why vex with words where words are poor and vain?
In one brief
sentence lies the riddle's key,
Which those who love her read and read
again,
Finding each time new meanings: SHE IS SHE!
WHEN?
If