Is it a Bosom where tired heads may lie? 
Is it a Mouth to kiss our weeping dry? 
Is it a Hand to still the pulse’s leap? 
Is it a Voice that holds the runes of sleep? 
Day shows us not such comfort anywhere—­
Dwells it in Darkness?  Do ye find it there?

Out of the Day’s deceiving light we call—­
Day that shows man so great, and God so small,
That hides the stars, and magnifies the grass—­
O is the Darkness too a lying glass! 
Or undistracted, do you find truth there? 
What of the Darkness?  Is it very fair?

RICHARD LE GALLIENNE.

VAN ELSEN.

God spake three times and saved Van Elsen’s soul;
He spake by sickness first and made him whole;
  Van Elsen heard him not,
  Or soon forgot.

God spake to him by wealth, the world outpoured
Its treasures at his feet, and called him Lord;
  Van Elsen’s heart grew fat
  And proud thereat.

God spake the third time when the great world smiled,
And in the sunshine slew his little child;
  Van Elsen like a tree
  Fell hopelessly.

Then in the darkness came a voice which said,
“As thy heart bleedeth, so my heart hath bled,
  As I have need of thee,
  Thou needest me.”

That night Van Elsen kissed the baby feet,
And, kneeling by the narrow winding sheet,
  Praised Him with fervent breath
  Who conquered death.

FREDERICK GEORGE SCOTT.

WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOOR-YARD BLOOMED.

     [THE DEATH OF LINCOLN.]

1.

When lilacs last in the door-yard bloomed,
And the great star early drooped in the western sky in the night,
I mourned and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,
Lilacs blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.

2.

O powerful western fallen star! 
O shades of night—­O moody, tearful night! 
O great star disappeared—­O the black murk that hides the star! 
O cruel hands that hold me powerless—­O helpless soul of me! 
O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul!

3.

In the door-yard fronting an old farm-house, near the whitewashed
          palings,
Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich
          green,
With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I
          love,
With every leaf a miracle;—­and from this bush in the door-yard,
With delicate-colored blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
A sprig with its flower I break.

4.

In the swamp in secluded recesses,
A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.

Solitary the thrush,
The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,
Sings by himself a song.—­