And, did I need that thou shouldst taunt My dying hour at last, By bidding this worn spirit pant No more for what is past? Priest--MUST I cease to think of him? How hollow rings that word! Can time, can tears, can distance dim The memory of my lord? I said before, I saw not thee, Because, an hour agone, Over my eyeballs, heavily, The lids fell down like stone. But still my spirit's inward sight Beholds his image beam As fixed, as clear, as burning bright, As some red planet's gleam. Talk not of thy Last Sacrament, Tell not thy beads for me; Both rite and prayer are vainly spent, As dews upon the sea. Speak not one word of Heaven above, Rave not of Hell's alarms; Give me but back my Walter's love, Restore me to his arms! Then will the bliss of Heaven be won; Then will Hell shrink away, As I have seen night's terrors shun The conquering steps of day. 'Tis my religion thus to love, My creed thus fixed to be; Not Death shall shake, nor Priestcraft break My rock-like constancy! Now go; for at the door there waits Another stranger guest; He calls--I come--my pulse scarce beats, My heart fails in my breast. Again that voice--how far away, How dreary sounds that tone! And I, methinks, am gone astray In trackless wastes and lone. I fain would rest a little while: Where can I find a stay, Till dawn upon the hills shall smile, And show some trodden way? "I come! I come!" in haste she said, "'Twas Walter's voice I heard!" Then up she sprang--but fell back, dead, His name her latest word. WINTER STORES. We take from life one little share, And say that this shall be A space, redeemed from toil and care, From tears and sadness free. And, haply, Death unstrings his bow, And Sorrow stands apart, And, for a little while, we know The sunshine of the heart. Existence seems a summer eve, Warm, soft, and full of peace, Our free, unfettered feelings give The soul its full release. A moment, then, it takes the power To call up thoughts that throw Around that charmed and hallowed hour, This life's divinest glow. But Time, though viewlessly it flies, And slowly, will not stay; Alike, through clear and clouded skies, It cleaves its silent way. Alike the bitter cup of grief, Alike the draught of bliss, Its progress leaves but moment brief For baffled lips to kiss The sparkling draught is dried away, The hour of rest is gone, And urgent voices, round us, say, "Ho, lingerer, hasten on!" And has the soul, then, only gained, From this brief time of ease, A moment's rest, when overstrained, One hurried glimpse of peace?