Just then in the room over us There was a pushing back of chairs, As some who had sat unawares With anxious softly-stepping haste Our mother went where Margaret lay, Fearing the sounds o'erhead-should they Have broken her long watched-for rest! She stopped an instant, calm, and turned; But suddenly turned back again; And all her features seemed in pain With woe, and her eyes gazed and yearned. For my part, I but hid my face, And held my breath, and spoke no word: There was none spoken; but I heard The silence for a little space. Our mother bowed herself and wept : And both my arms fell, and I said, " God knows I knew that she was dead.' And there, all white, my sister slept. Then kneeling, upon Christmas morn A little after twelve o'clock We said, ere the first quarter struck, 'Christ's blessing on the newly born!' DOWN STREAM. BETWEEN Holmscote and Hurstcote The river-reaches wind, The whispering trees accept the breeze, With love low-whispered 'twixt the shores, With rippling laughters gay, With white arms bared to ply the oars, Between Holmscote and Hurstcote The river's brimmed with rain, Through close-met banks and parted banks Now near now far again : With parting tears caressed to smiles, With meeting promised soon, With every sweet vow that beguiles, On last year's first of June. Between Holmscote and Hurstcote The river's flecked with foam, 'Neath shuddering clouds that hang in shrouds And lost winds wild for home : With infant wailings at the breast, With homeless steps astray, With wanderings shuddering tow'rds one rest On this year's first of May. Between Holmscote and Hurstcote The summer river flows With doubled flight of moons by night And lilies' deep repose : With lo! beneath the moon's white stare A white face not the moon, With lilies meshed in tangled hair, On this year's first of June. Between Holmscote and Hurstcote With banks spread calm to meet the sky, The harvest-paths of glad July, The sweet school-children's road. A LAST CONFESSION. (Regno Lombardo-Veneto, 1848.) * OUR Lombard country-girls along the coast Father, you cannot know of all my thoughts That day in going to meet her,—that last day For the last time, she said ;-of all the love And all the hopeless hope that she might change And go back with me. Ah! and everywhere, At places we both knew along the road, Some fresh shape of herself as once she was Grew present at my side; until it seemed— |