I have no learning—in nor school nor college Could I abide o’er quaint old tomes to pore; But this I know which passeth all your knowledge— That Psyche loves me! Could I ask for more? Now come what may, or loss or shame or sorrow, Sickness, ingratitude or treachery sore, I laugh to-day and heed not for the morrow— For Psyche loves me—and I ask no more. * * * * * TO THE LOST ONE. BY DUNCAN MOORE. _Vale et Benedicite._ In joy we met; in anguish part; Farewell, thou frail, misguided one! Young Hope sings matins in thy heart, While dirges ring in mine alone, Solemn as monumental stone. Thy life is Spring, but Autumn mine; Thy hope all flowers; mine bitter fruit, For hope but blossoms to repine; It seldom hath a second shoot;— A shadow that evades pursuit. Though poets are not prophets here, Yet Time must pass and you will see, While o’er dead joys you drop the tear, This world is one Gethsemane Where all weep—die—still dream to be. Flowers spring, birds sing in the young heart, But Time spares not the flowers of Spring; The birds that sang there soon depart, And leave God’s altar withering— Flowerless and no bird to sing. God pronounced all things good in Eden; Young Adam sang—not knowing evil, Until the snake plucked fruit forbidden, And made himself to Eve quite civil.— Did he tempt her, or she the devil? True, she made Eden Adam’s heaven;— Also the green earth Adam’s hell; Tore from his grasp all God had given; Cast him from bliss in sin to dwell; To make her food by his sweat and blood. Then what should man from woman hope, Who hurled from Paradise his sire? Her frailty drew his horoscope, And barred the gates of heaven with fire; Changed God’s intent for her desire. And what should she from man expect Who slew his God her soul to save? A dreary life of cold neglect;— For Eden lost;—a welcome grave, Where kings make ashes with the slave! A welcome grave! man’s crowning hope! All trust from dust we shall revive; Despite our gloomy horoscope, Incarnadined God will receive His children who slew him to live.