THE DEATH OF LIVINGSTONE.

(ILALA-MAY, 1873.)

THE Swarthy followers stood aloof,

Unled-unfathered;

He bade them, as they passed the hut,

To give no warning

Of their still faithful presence but

"Good Morning."

To him, may be, through broken sleep
And pains abated,

These words were into senses deep
Translated.

Dear dead salutes of wife and child,

Old kirkyard greetings; Sunrises over hill-sides wild,

Heart-beatings;

Welcoming sounds of fresh-blown seas,

Of homeward travel,

Tangles of thought last memories

Unravel.

'Neath England's fretted roof of fame-
With flowers adorning

An open grave-comes up the same
"Good Morning."

Morning o'er that weird continent
Now slowly breaking-
Europe her sullen self-restraint

Forsaking !

Morning of sympathy and trust

For such as bore

Their Master's spirit's sacred crust

To England's shore.

VOL. I.

X

How can I not go with Thee?

What am I for, but to share

Thought, and joy, and woe with Thee?
I have known the unstainèd peace
Children only know-with Thee;
I have watched the chequered blooms
Of my fortune blow-with Thee;
I must part the scanty hope
Our low fates bestow-with Thee ;
Wish I with the great to live,

With the wealthy? No! with Thee;
Nature's hand has mated us,—

Who but I can go with Thee?

II.

THERE are few to whom, expiring, I would say, Forget me not?

The busy world, the many-minded,-why should it forget me not?

I have never worn its honours, never won its open

shame,

Never bent before it, never wooed it to forget me not; But if e'er my hand has wakened grateful hearts to yearn to mine,

If I ever earned kind friendship, let those friends forget me not.

And for Her who was and is my soul of soul--my life of life

'Twould be wicked doubt to ask it-Leila will forget

me not.

Then mayst thou of all remembrance-thou whose knowledge only sleeps

In the free-will of thy justice-Father-thou-forget

me not!

III.

WRITTEN AT AMALFI.

Ir is the mid-May Sun, that, rayless and peacefully gleaming,

Out of its night's short prison, this blessèd of lands is redeeming ;

It is the fire evoked from the hearts of the citron and

orange,

So that they hang, like lamps of the day, translucently

beaming;

It is the veinless water, and air unsoiled by a vapour, Save what, out of the fullness of life, from the valley is steaming;

It is the olive that smiles, even he, the sad growth of the moonlight,

Over the flowers, whose breasts triple-folded with odours are teeming ;

Yes, it is these bright births, that to me are a shame and an anguish,

They are alive and awake,-I dream, and know I am dreaming;

I cannot bathe my soul in this ocean of passion and beauty,