Each well-born soul must win what it deserves.

Let the fool prate of luck. The fortunate Is he whose earnest purpose never swerves, Whose slightest action or inaction serves The one great aim.

Why, even Death stands still, And waits an hour sometimes for such a will.

WINTER RAIN.

Falling upon the frozen world last night, I heard the slow beat of the Winter rain-- Poor foolish drops, down-dripping all in vain; The ice-bound Earth but mocked their puny might, Far better had the fixedness of white And uncomplaining snows--which make no sign, But coldly smile, when pitying moonbeams shine-- Concealed its sorrow from all human sight.

Long, long ago, in blurred and burdened years, I learned the uselessness of uttered woe.

Though sinewy Fate deals her most skillful blow, I do not waste the gall now of my tears, But feed my pride upon its bitter, while I look straight in the world's bold eyes, and smile.

APPLAUSE.

I hold it one of the sad certain laws Which makes our failures sometimes seem more kind Than that success which brings sure loss behind-- True greatness dies, when sounds the world's applause Fame blights the object it would bless, because Weighed down with men's expectancy, the mind Can no more soar to those far heights, and find That freedom which its inspiration was.

When once we listen to its noisy cheers Or hear the populace' approval, then We catch no more the music of the spheres, Or walk with G.o.ds, and angels, but with men.

Till, impotent from our self-conscious fears, The plaudits of the world turn into sneers.

LIFE.

Life, like a romping schoolboy, full of glee, Doth bear us on his shoulders for a time.

There is no path too steep for him to climb, With strong, lithe limbs, as agile and as free, As some young roe, he speeds by vale and sea, By flowery mead, by mountain peak sublime, And all the world seems motion set to rhyme, Till, tired out, he cries, "Now carry me!"

In vain we murmur, "Come," Life says, "fair play!"

And seizes on us. G.o.d! he goads us so!

He does not let us sit down all the day.

At each new step we feel the burden grow, Till our bent backs seem breaking as we go, Watching for Death to meet us on the way.

BURDENED.

"Genius, a man's weapon, a woman's burden."--_Lamartine._

Dear G.o.d! there is no sadder fate in life, Than to be burdened so that you can not Sit down contented with the common lot Of happy mother and devoted wife.

To feel your brain wild and your bosom rife With all the sea's commotion; to be fraught With fires and frenzies which you have not sought, And weighed down with the wide world's weary strife.

To feel a fever alway in your breast, To lean and hear half in affright, half shame.

A loud-voiced public boldly mouth your name, To reap your hard-sown harvest in unrest, And know, however great your meed of fame, You are but a weak woman at the best.

THE STORY.

They met each other in the glade-- She lifted up her eyes; Alack the day! Alack the maid!

She blushed in swift surprise.

Alas! alas! the woe that comes from lifting up the eyes.

The pail was full, the path was steep-- He reached to her his hand; She felt her warm young pulses leap, But did not understand.

Alas! alas! the woe that comes from clasping hand with hand.

She sat beside him in the wood-- He wooed with words and sighs; Ah! love in spring seems sweet and good, And maidens are not wise.

Alas! alas! the woe that comes from listing lovers' sighs.

The summer sun shone fairly down, The wind blew from the south; As blue eyes gazed in eyes of brown, His kiss fell on her mouth.

Alas! alas! the woe that comes from kisses on the mouth.

And now the autumn time is near, The lover roves away, With breaking heart and falling tear, She sits the livelong day.

Alas! alas! for breaking hearts when lovers rove away.

LET THEM GO.

Let the dream go. Are there not other dreams In vastness of clouds hid from thy sight That yet shall gild with beautiful gold gleams, And shoot the shadows through and through with light?

What matters one lost vision of the night?

Let the dream go!

Let the hope set. Are there not other hopes That yet shall rise like new stars in thy sky?

Not long a soul in sullen darkness gropes Before some light is lent it from on high; What folly to think happiness gone by!

Let the hope set!

Let the joy fade. Are there not other joys, Like frost-bound bulbs, that yet shall start and bloom?

Severe must be the winter that destroys The hardy roots locked in their silent tomb.

What cares the earth for her brief time of gloom?

Let the joy fade!

Let the love die. Are there not other loves As beautiful and full of sweet unrest, Flying through s.p.a.ce like snowy-pinioned doves?

They yet shall come and nestle in thy breast, And thou shalt say of each, "Lo, this is best!"

Let the love die!

THE ENGINE.

Into the gloom of the deep, dark night, With panting breath and a startled scream; Swift as a bird in sudden flight Darts this creature of steel and steam.

Awful dangers are lurking nigh, Rocks and chasms are near the track, But straight by the light of its great white eye It speeds through the shadows, dense and black.