“But since his soul this seven year Has sat by thee,” she said, “His body and soul to-night shall lie Upon my golden bed. “Thou hast no need to speak the spell That thou hast learned,” said she, “For I will wake him from his sleep And take his soul from thee.” She stooped above him where he lay, She laid her lips on his; He stirred, he spake: “These seven long years I have waited for thy kiss. “My soul has hung upon thy lips And trembled at thy breath, Thou hast given me life in a cup to drink, As God will give me death. “Why didst thou fear to kill my soul Which only lives for thee? Thou hast put seven wasted years, O love, ’twixt thee and me.” THE GHOST BEREFT The poor ghost came through the wind and rain And passed down the old dear road again. Thin cowered the hedges, the tall trees swayed Like little children that shrank afraid. The wind was wild and the night was late When the poor ghost came to the garden gate; Dank were the flower-beds, heavy and wet, The weeds stood up where the rose was set. The wind was angry, the rain beat sore When the poor ghost came to its own house-door. “And shall I find her a-weeping still To think how alone I lie and chill? “Or shall I find her happy and warm With her dear head laid on a new love’s arm? “Or shall I find she has learned to pine For another’s love, and not for mine? “Whatever chance, I have this to my store, She is mine, my own, for evermore!” So the poor ghost came through the wind and rain Till it reached the square bright window pane. “Oh! what is here in the room so bright? Roses and love, and a hid delight? “What lurks in the silence that fills the room? A cypress wreath from a dead man’s tomb? “What sleeps? What wakes? And oh! can it be Her heart that is breaking--and not for me?” Then the poor ghost looked through the window pane, Though all the glass was wrinkled with rain. “Oh, there is light, at the feet and head Twelve tall tapers about the bed. “Oh, there are flowers, white flowers and rare, But not the garland a bride may wear. “Jasmine white and a white white rose, But its scent is gone where the lost dream goes. “Straight lilies laid on the strait white bier-- But the room is empty--she is not here! “Her body lies here, deserted, cold; And the body that loved it creeps in the mould. “Was there ever an hour when my Love, set free, Would not have hastened and come to me? “Can the soul that loved mine long ago Be hence and away, and I not know? “Oh, then God’s judgment is on me sore, For I have lost her for evermore!” And the poor ghost fared through the wind and rain To its own appointed place again. * * * * *