Just then her busy fingers ceased, Her fluttered colour went and came; I knew whose step was on the walk, Whose voice would name her name. * * * * * * * Well, twenty years have passed since then: My sister now, a stately wife 230 Still fair, looks back in peace and sees The longer half of life-- The longer half of prosperous life, With little grief, or fear, or fret: She loved, and, loving long ago, Is loved and loving yet. A husband honourable, brave, Is her main wealth in all the world: And next to him one like herself, One daughter golden-curled; 240 Fair image of her own fair youth, As beautiful and as serene, With almost such another love As her own love has been. Yet, tho' of world-wide charity, And in her home most tender dove, Her treasure and her heart are stored In the home-land of love: She thrives, God's blessed husbandry; She like a vine is full of fruit; 250 Her passion-flower climbs up toward heaven Tho' earth still binds its root. I sit and watch my sister's face: How little altered since the hours When she, a kind, light-hearted girl, Gathered her garden flowers; Her song just mellowed by regret For having teased me with her talk; Then all-forgetful as she heard One step upon the walk. 260 While I? I sat alone and watched My lot in life, to live alone, In mine own world of interests, Much felt but little shown. Not to be first: how hard to learn That lifelong lesson of the past; Line graven on line and stroke on stroke; But, thank God, learned at last. So now in patience I possess My soul year after tedious year, 270 Content to take the lowest place, The place assigned me here. Yet sometimes, when I feel my strength Most weak, and life most burdensome, I lift mine eyes up to the hills From whence my help shall come: Yea, sometimes still I lift my heart To the Archangelic trumpet-burst, When all deep secrets shall be shown, And many last be first. 280 MY FRIEND (_Macmillan's Magazine_, Dec. 1864.) Two days ago with dancing glancing hair, With living lips and eyes: Now pale, dumb, blind, she lies; So pale, yet still so fair. We have not left her yet, not yet alone; But soon must leave her where She will not miss our care, Bone of our bone. Weep not; O friends, we should not weep: Our friend of friends lies full of rest; 10 No sorrow rankles in her breast, Fallen fast asleep. She sleeps below, She wakes and laughs above: To-day, as she walked, let us walk in love; To-morrow follow so. LAST NIGHT (_Macmillan's Magazine_, May 1865.)