But the gem of the collection is unquestionably the poem entitled "Bertha in the Lane." This is the purest picture of a broken heart that ever drew tears from the eyes of woman or of man. Although our extracts are likely to exceed the proportion which they ought to bear to our critical commentary, we must be permitted to quote this poem entire. A grain of such poetry is worth a cart-load of criticism:-- BERTHA IN THE LANE. "Put the broidery-frame away, For my sewing is all done! The last thread is used to-day, And I need not join it on. Though the clock stands at the noon, I am weary! I have sewn Sweet, for thee, a wedding-gown. "Sister, help me to the bed, And stand near me, dearest-sweet, Do not shrink nor be afraid, Blushing with a sudden heat! No one standeth in the street?-- By God's love I go to meet, Love I thee with love complete. "Lean thy face down! drop it in These two hands, that I may hold 'Twixt their palms thy cheek and chin, Stroking back the curls of gold. 'Tis a fair, fair face, in sooth-- Larger eyes and redder mouth Than mine were in my first youth! "Thou art younger by seven years-- Ah!--so bashful at my gaze, That the lashes, hung with tears, Grow too heavy to upraise? I would wound thee by no touch Which thy shyness feels as such-- Dost thou mind me, dear, so much? "Have I not been nigh a mother To thy sweetness--tell me, dear? Have we not loved one another Tenderly, from year to year; Since our dying mother mild Said _with accents undefiled_,[32] 'Child, be mother to this child!' "Mother, mother, up in heaven, Stand up on the jasper sea, And be witness I have given All the gifts required of me;-- Hope that bless'd me, bliss that crown'd, Love, that left me with a wound, Life itself, that turneth round! "Mother, mother, thou art kind, Thou art standing in the room,-- In a molten glory shrined, That rays off into the gloom! But thy smile is bright and bleak Like cold waves--I cannot speak; I sob in it, and grow weak. "Ghostly mother, keep aloof One hour longer from my soul-- For I still am thinking of Earth's warm-beating joy and dole! On my finger is a ring Which I still see glittering, When the night hides every thing. "Little sister, thou art pale! Ah! I have a wandering brain-- But I lose that fever-bale, And my thoughts grow calm again. Lean down closer--closer still! I have words thine ear to fill,-- And would kiss thee at my will.