Then live again the forms of those who lie Gather'd into the grave's dark mystery. Vainly at reason's voice the phantom flies,-- It comes, it still comes back to the fond eyes,-- Still, still the yearning arms are spread to clasp The blessing that escapes their baffled grasp: Still the bewildering memory mutters "Gone!" Still, still the clinging aching heart loves on. Oh, bitter! that the lips on which we pour Love's fondest kisses, feel the touch no more; Oh, lonely! that the voice on which we call In agony, breaks not its silent thrall; Oh, fearful! that the eyes in which we gaze With desperate hope through their thick filmy haze, Return no living look to bless our sight! Oh, God! that it were granted that one might But once behold the secret of the grave,-- That but one voice from the all-shrouding cave Might speak,--that but one sleeper might emerge From the deep death-sea's overwhelming surge! Speak, speak from the grey coffins where ye lie Fretting to dust your foul mortality! Speak, from your homes of darkness and dismay,-- To what new being do ye pass away?-- O _do_ ye live, indeed?--speak, if on high One atom springs whose doom is not to die!-- Where have I wandered? * * * * * * * * * * _Saturday, 29th._ When I came down to breakfast, found a very pretty diamond ring and some Scotch rhymes, from Mr. ----, what we call a small return of favours. I wish my hand wasn't so abominably ugly,--I hate to put a ring upon it. ---- called to see if we would ride; but D---- had too much to do; and, after sitting pottering for some time, I sang him the Messenger Bird, and sent him away. Went for a few moments to Mrs. ----, who seemed much better. Went out to pay sundry bills and visits. Called at Mr. ----'s, and spent half an hour most delightfully in his study. His picture of my father is very like, and very agreeable. 'Tis too youthful by a good deal; but the expression of the face is extremely good, and upon the whole, except that stern-looking thing of Kearsley's, 'tis the likest thing I have seen of him. We had a long discussion about the stage,--the dramatic art; which, as Helen says, "is none," for, "no art but taketh time and pains to learn." Now I am a living and breathing witness that a person may be accounted a good actor, and to a certain degree deserve the title, without time or pains of any sort being expended upon the acquisition of the reputation. But, on other grounds, acting has always appeared to me to be the very lowest of the arts, admitting that it deserves to be classed among them at all, which I am not sure it does. In the first place, it originates nothing; it lacks, therefore, the grand faculty which all other arts possess--creation. An actor is at the best but the filler-up of the outline designed by