THE DEAD HOUSE.

HERE once my step was quickened,
Here beckoned the opening door,
And welcome thrilled from the threshold
To the foot it had known before.

A glow came forth to meet me

From the flame that laughed in the grate, And shadows adance on the ceiling,

Danced blither with mine for a mate.

"I claim you, old friend," yawned the arm

chair,

"This corner, you know, is your seat; "Rest your slippers on me," beamed the fender,

"I brighten at touch of your feet."

"We know the practiced finger,'

Said the books, "that seems like brain;'

And the shy page rustled the secret

It had kept till I came again.

Sang the pillow, "My down once quivered
On nightingales' throats that flew

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THE DEAD HOUSE.

Through moonlit gardens of Hafiz
To gather quaint dreams for you."

Ah me, where the Past sowed heart's-ease,
The Present plucks rue for us men!
I come back that scar unhealing

Was not in the churchyard then.

But, I think, the house is unaltered,
I will go and beg to look

At the rooms that were once familiar
То my life as its bed to a brook.

Unaltered!

Alas for the sameness

That makes the change but more! 'Tis a dead man I see in the mirrors, 'Tis his tread that chills the floor!

To learn such a simple lesson,

Need I go to Paris and Rome, That the many make the household, But only one the home?

'T was just a womanly presence, An influence unexpressed,

But a rose she had worn, on my grave-sod, Were more than long life with the rest!

'T was a smile, 't was a garment's rustle, 'Twas nothing that I can phrase,

THE DEAD HOUSE.

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But the whole dumb dwelling grew conscious, And put on her looks and ways.

Were it mine I would close the shutters,
Like lids when the life is fled,

And the funeral fire should wind it,
This corpse of a home that is dead.

For it died that autumn morning
When she, its soul, was borne

To lie all dark on the hillside

That looks over woodland and corn.

LOWELL.

"AS MEN BORN BLIND."

As men born blind must ponder upon light, Deaf men on sound, though pondering seems vain ;

Since only seeing tells the joy of sight;

And hearing only music can explain;

So I, Beloved, must needs my spirit strain Long as endures life's dark and silent night Some image of a future bliss to gain.

Knowledge will widen, — that must mean, for thee,

God clearer seen in all his power has wrought;

And oh my thinker, still more bold and free The range and energy of ceaseless thought. High hopes are these; but yet, for one like

me,

A simple image, with past rapture fraught, Seems best to shadow forth what heaven may be.

Our life had days and years most glad and fair,

Yet one joy thrills me still all joys above,

"AS MEN BORN BLIND."

Because it rose on an almost despair -

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We two were parted; should we meet? Oh! Love,

I did not dare expect you, you were there!
That says
it all; and dying may but prove
A like surprise, and give me strength to bear.

LUCY SMITH.