Look into those deep eyes, Stirred to unrest by breath of coming strife, Until a longing in thy soul arise That this indeed were life: That thou couldst find Him there, Bend at His sacred feet thy willing knee, And from thy heart pour out the passionate prayer "Lord, let me follow Thee!" But see the crowd divide: Mother and sire have found their lost one now: The gentle voice, that fain would seem to chide Whispers "Son, why hast thou"-- In tone of sad amaze-- "Thus dealt with us, that art our dearest thing? Behold, thy sire and I, three weary days, Have sought thee sorrowing." And I had stayed to hear The loving words "How is it that ye sought?"-- But that the sudden lark, with matins clear, Severed the links of thought. Then over all there fell Shadow and silence; and my dream was fled, As fade the phantoms of a wizard's cell When the dark charm is said. Yet, in the gathering light, I lay with half-shut eyes that would not wake, Lovingly clinging to the skirts of night For that sweet vision's sake. _Feb. 16, 1861._ [Illustration] FACES IN THE FIRE. The night creeps onward, sad and slow: In these red embers' dying glow The forms of Fancy come and go. An island-farm--broad seas of corn Stirred by the wandering breath of morn-- The happy spot where I was born. The picture fadeth in its place: Amid the glow I seem to trace The shifting semblance of a face. 'Tis now a little childish form-- Red lips for kisses pouted warm-- And elf-locks tangled in the storm. 'Tis now a grave and gentle maid, At her own beauty half afraid, Shrinking, and willing to be stayed. Oh, Time was young, and Life was warm, When first I saw that fairy-form, Her dark hair tossing in the storm. And fast and free these pulses played, When last I met that gentle maid-- When last her hand in mine was laid. Those locks of jet are turned to gray, And she is strange and far away That might have been mine own to-day-- That might have been mine own, my dear, Through many and many a happy year-- That might have sat beside me here. Ay, changeless through the changing scene, The ghostly whisper rings between, The dark refrain of 'might have been.' The race is o'er I might have run: The deeds are past I might have done; And sere the wreath I might have won. Sunk is the last faint flickering blaze: The vision of departed days Is vanished even as I gaze. The pictures, with their ruddy light, Are changed to dust and ashes white, And I am left alone with night. _Jan., 1860._ [Illustration] A LESSON IN LATIN. Our Latin books, in motley row, Invite us to our task-- Gay Horace, stately Cicero: Yet there's one verb, when once we know, No higher skill we ask: This ranks all other lore above-- We've learned "'_Amare_' means '_to love_'!"