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More musical than ever came in one,
The silver fragments of a broken voice,
Made me most happy, lisping “I am thine.”

Shall I cease here? Is this enough to say
That my desire, like all strongest hopes,
By its own energy fulfill'd itself,
Merged in completion? Would you learn at full
How passion rose thro' circumstantial grades
Beyond all grades develop'd ? and indeed
I had not staid so long to tell you all,
But while I mused came Memory with sad eyes,
Holding the folded annals of my youth ;
And while I mused, Love with knit brows went by,
And with a flying finger swept my lips,
And spake, “Be wise: not easily forgiven
Are those, who setting wide the doors, that bar
The secret bridal chambers of the heart,
Let in the day.” Here, then, my words have end.

Yet might I tell of meetings, of farewells— ' Of that which came between, more sweet than each, In whispers, like the whispers of the leaves

That tremble round a nightingalein sighs
Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for utterance,
Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not tell
Of difference, reconcilement, pledges given,
And vows, where there was never need of vows,
And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap
Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above
The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale
Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleeting stars ;
Or while the balmy glooming, crescent-lit,
Spread the light haze along the river-shores,
And in the hollows; or as once we met
Unheedful, though beneath a whispering rain
Night slid down one long stream of sighing wind,
And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep.

But this whole hour your eyes have been intent
On that veil'd picture—veil’d, for what it holds
May not be dwelt on by the common day.
This prelude has prepared thee. Raise thy soul
Make thine heart ready with thine eyes : the time
Is come to raise the veil.

Behold her there,

As I beheld her ere she knew

my

heart,

My first, last love ; the idol of my youth, The darling of my manhood, and, alas! Now the most blessed memory of mine age,

D 0 Ꭱ Ꭺ .

WITH farmer Allan at the farm abode

William and Dora. William was his son,

And she his niece. He often look'd at them,

And often thought “ I 'll make them man and wife.”
Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all,
And yearn'd towards William ; but the youth, because
He had been always with her in the house,
Thought not of Dora.

Then there came a day
When Allan call’d his son, and said, “ My son:
I married late, but I would wish to see
My grandchild on my knees before I die :
And I have set my heart upon a match.

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Now therefore look to Dora; she is well
To look to; thrifty too beyond her age.
She is my brother's daughter: he and I
Had once hard words, and parted, and he died
In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred
His daughter Dora: take her for

your

wife; For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day, For many years.” But William answer'd short; “ I cannot marry Dora; by my life, I will not marry Dora.” Then the old man Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said: “ You will not, boy ! you dare to answer thus! But in my time a father's word was law, And so it shall be now for me. Look to 't; Consider, William: take a month to think, And let me have an answer to my wish ; Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, And nevermore darken my doors again.” But William answer'd madly; bit his lips, And broke

The more he look'd at her The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; But Dora bore them meekly. Then before

away.

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