BY RICHARD HAYWARDE. Heart that beateth, trembleth, yearneth, Now with grief and pain assailed, Now with joy triumphant burneth, Now in sorrow veiled; Moveless us the wave-worn rock In the battle’s deadly shock, When the charging lines advance, Doom on every lance; Yet melting at some mimic show, Or plaintive tale of wo! Faint with love—of conquest proud— Seared with hate—with fury riven, Like the fire-armed thunder-cloud By the tempest driven: Hark! the chords with rapture swell, Flood on flood melodious flowing, Sudden! strikes the passing bell, Swinging with reverbing knell, While the soul is going! Though at times, “Oh, Death!” I cry, “Ope the door, thy son entreateth!” Though from life I strive to fly, Still the heart-clock beateth— No, not yet I wish for thee, Gaunt and pale remorseless king! Soon, too soon, thou’lt come for me, O’er life triumphing. Glow and dance in every vein, Crimson current, ruby river, To thy source return again, As the teeming summer-rain Seeks again the parent main, The all-bounteous giver; Beat, dear heart, against my breast, Tell me thou art there again— Life and thee together rest In that hold of joy and pain— Stronghold yet of life thou art, Restless, ever-working heart! Night comes draped in shadows sombre, Morning robed in light appears, Minutes, hours, withouten number, Days and months and years Pass like dreams; yet still thou art Ever busy, restless heart! When his doom the captive heareth, How thy summons, stroke on stroke, Tells the fatal moment neareth, Sounding like the heavy stroke Distant heard as falls the oak! How the maiden fair would hide Thee within her bosom white, Still against her tender side Throbs the soft delight; Every pulse reveals the flame, Every fibre softly thrills, But how innocent the shame That her bosom fills.