No More Learning

VI.

Perhaps she shuddered while the world's cold hand her brow was
wreathing,
But never wronged that mystic breath which breathed in all her
breathing,
Which drew, from rocky earth and man, abstractions high and moving,
Beauty, if not the beautiful, and love, if not the loving.

VII.

Such visionings have paled in sight; the Saviour she descrieth,
And little recks _who_ wreathed the brow which on His bosom lieth:
The whiteness of His innocence o'er all her garments, flowing,
There learneth she the sweet "new song" she will not mourn in knowing.

VIII.

Be happy, crowned and living One! and as thy dust decayeth
May thine own England say for thee what now for Her it sayeth--
"Albeit softly in our ears her silver song was ringing,
The foot-fall of her parting soul is softer than her singing. "




_L. E. L. 'S LAST QUESTION. _

"Do you think of me as I think of you? "
(_From her poem written during the voyage to the Cape. _)


I.

"Do you think of me as I think of you,
My friends, my friends?
"--She said it from the sea,
The English minstrel in her minstrelsy,
While, under brighter skies than erst she knew,
Her heart grew dark, and groped there as the blind
To reach across the waves friends left behind--
"Do you think of me as I think of you? "

II.

It seemed not much to ask--"as _I_ of _you_? "
We all do ask the same; no eyelids cover
Within the meekest eyes that question over:
And little in the world the Loving do
But sit (among the rocks? ) and listen for
The echo of their own love evermore--
"Do you think of me as I think of you? "

III.

Love-learned she had sung of love and love,--
And like a child that, sleeping with dropt head
Upon the fairy-book he lately read,
Whatever household noises round him move,
Hears in his dream some elfin turbulence,--
Even so suggestive to her inward sense,
All sounds of life assumed one tune of love.

IV.

And when the glory of her dream withdrew,
When knightly gestes and courtly pageantries
Were broken in her visionary eyes
By tears the solemn seas attested true,--
Forgetting that sweet lute beside her hand,
She asked not,--"Do you praise me, O my land? "
But,--"Think ye of me, friends, as I of you? "

V.

Hers was the hand that played for many a year
Love's silver phrase for England, smooth and well.
Would God her heart's more inward oracle
In that lone moment might confirm her dear!
For when her questioned friends in agony
Made passionate response, "We think of thee,"
Her place was in the dust, too deep to hear.

VI.

Could she not wait to catch their answering breath?