HIS LOVE’S FRUITION. “Come, Love, be mine,” the boy implored; And from his fresh young heart there pour’d Full streams of life that flush’d his face And thrill’d his breast for Love’s embrace. “Nay, nay; not yet,” his Love replied; “The worth of boyhood must be tried.” So, like the spring’s uncertain sun, Love lured his hope; but was not won. “Come, Love, be mine,” the young man pray’d, As if some angel were the maid; And could with bliss have knelt beside The only power that awed his pride. “Nay, nay; not yet,” his Love replied; “For vintage-time must life provide.” So brightly, like a summer-sun, Love cheer’d his way; but was not won. “Come, Love, be mine,” the strong man urged; “The mounts above in cloud are merged; And, hand in hand with thee, my life Will better brave the looming strife.” “Nay, nay; not yet,” his Love replied, “The harvests wait; the fields are wide.” So, clouded like an autumn-sun, Love veil’d her light, and was not won. “Come, Love, be mine,” the old man said; And meekly bow’d his whiten’d head; Then, while it sank against his breast, “O Love, has life not won its rest?” “I come,” his Love at last replied; And clasp’d him; but he only sigh’d. And, faint and chill, life’s wintry sun In gold had set; his Love was won. WHAT WOULD I GIVE. WRITTEN ON A SUNDAY IN GERMANY. There, where the flowers more fragrant lie, Crushed by the crowds that have pass’d them by, Stands a chapel; and oft from its door Hymns of the lowly worshippers pour, Crush’d like the flowers, I trow. O little Church, but what would I give, What would I give, and how would I live, To know as thy sweet souls know! There, where the trees on the great knoll sway Swept by the wind that they fail to stay, Bend great crowds, while organ and bell Hail God’s Host that is deigning to dwell Shrined in their church below. O great Church, but what would I give, What would I give, and how would I live, To know as thy hush’d throngs know! There on the cliff that chancels the park, Nigh to the cloud where is trilling the lark, Men and maidens dance to the lay Blown by the blasts of the trumpeters gay, Fluttering to and fro. O gay Cliff, but what would I give, What would I give, and how would I live, To know as thy light hearts know! There, where the sun burns all the view, What sounds there in the boundless blue? Faith—is it more than a meek despair? Truth—than one’s own note echoed in air? Hope—than his dawn’s bright dew? O hush’d Heaven, but what would I give, How would I love, and how would I live, To know the soul’s tale to be true! DRAMATIC. IDEALS MADE REAL. I.