Aye, lay him in his grave, the old dead year! His life is lived--fulfilled his destiny. Have you for him no sad, regretful tear To drop beside the cold, unfollowed bier? Can you not pay the tribute of a sigh? Was he not kind to you, this dead old year? Did he not give enough of earthly store? Enough of love, and laughter, and good cheer? Have not the skies you scanned sometimes been clear? How, then, of him who dies, could you ask more? It is not well to hate him for the pain He brought you, and the sorrows manifold. To pardon him these hurts still I am fain; For in the panting period of his reign, He brought me new wounds, but he healed the old. One little sigh for thee, my poor, dead friend-- One little sigh while my companions sing. Thou art so soon forgotten in the end; We cry e'en as thy footsteps downward tend: "The king is dead! long live the king!" THEOLOGY There is a heaven, for ever, day by day, The upward longing of my soul doth tell me so. There is a hell, I 'm quite as sure; for pray, If there were not, where would my neighbours go? RESIGNATION Long had I grieved at what I deemed abuse; But now I am as grain within the mill. If so be thou must crush me for thy use, Grind on, O potent God, and do thy will! LOVE'S HUMILITY As some rapt gazer on the lowly earth, Looks up to radiant planets, ranging far, So I, whose soul doth know thy wondrous worth Look longing up to thee as to a star. PRECEDENT The poor man went to the rich man's doors, "I come as Lazarus came," he said. The rich man turned with humble head,-- "I will send my dogs to lick your sores!" SHE TOLD HER BEADS She told her beads with down-cast eyes, Within the ancient chapel dim; And ever as her fingers slim Slipt o'er th' insensate ivories, My rapt soul followed, spaniel-wise. Ah, many were the beads she wore; But as she told them o'er and o'er, They did not number all my sighs. My heart was filled with unvoiced cries And prayers and pleadings unexpressed; But while I burned with Love's unrest, She told her beads with down-cast eyes. LITTLE LUCY LANDMAN Oh, the day has set me dreaming In a strange, half solemn way Of the feelings I experienced On another long past day,-- Of the way my heart made music When the buds began to blow, And o' little Lucy Landman Whom I loved long years ago. It 's in spring, the poet tells us, That we turn to thoughts of love, And our hearts go out a-wooing With the lapwing and the dove. But whene'er the soul goes seeking Its twin-soul, upon the wing, I 've a notion, backed by mem'ry, That it's love that makes the spring.