When some belovéd voice, which was to you Both sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly, And silence against which you dare not cry Aches round you with an anguish dreadly new— What hope, what help? What music will undo That silence to your sense? Not friendship’s sigh, Not reason’s labored proof, not melody Of viols, nor the dancers footing through; Not songs of poets, nor of nightingales, Whose hearts leap upward from the cypress trees To Venus’ star! nor yet the spheric laws Self-chanted—nor the angels’ sweet “all hails,” Met in the smile of God! Nay, none of these! Speak, Christ at His right hand, and fill this pause. III. What are we set on earth for? Say, to toil! Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vines For all the heat o’ the sun, till it declines, And Death’s mild curfew shall from work assoil. God did anoint thee with his odorous oil To wrestle, not to reign—and he assigns All thy tears over like pure crystallines Unto thy fellows, working the same soil. To wear for amulets. So others shall Take patience, labor, to their heart and hand, From thy hand, and thy heart, and thy brave cheer, And God’s grace fructify through thee to all! The least flower with a brimming cup may stand And share its dew-drop with another near. IV. The woman singeth at her spinning-wheel A pleasant song, ballad or barcarolle, She thinketh of her song, upon the whole, Far more than of her flax; and yet the reel Is full, and artfully her fingers feel, With quick adjustment, provident control, The lines, too subtly twisted to unroll, Out to the perfect thread. I hence appeal To the dear Christian church—that we may do Our Father’s business in these temples mirk, So swift and steadfast, so intent and strong— While so, apart from toil, our souls pursue Some high, calm, spheric tune—proving our work The better for the sweetness of our song. * * * * * SONNET. BY MRS. SEBA SMITH. I dreamed last night, that I myself did lay Within the grave—and after stood and wept— My spirit sorrowed where its ashes slept— ’Twas a strange dream, and yet meseems it may Prefigure that which is akin to truth— How sorrow we o’er perish’d dreams of youth! High hopes, and aspirations doom’d to be Crush’d, and o’er-mastered by earth’s destiny! Fame, that the spirit loathing turns to ruth— And that deluding faith so loath to part, That earth will shrine for us one kindred heart; Oh, ’tis the ashes of such things, that wring Tears from the eyes! Hopes like to these depart, And we bow down in dread, o’er-shadowed by death’s wing. * * * * *