Sunset, and purple shadows o'er the dome Of sky above St Peter's; and the square As silent as a graveyard, and as dumb. Within the church, a peasant deep in prayer; And like a challenge through the languid air The ringing, swinging, singing bells of Rome. TO —— The day is warm and mellow, The fields are gold and yellow, And in the misty distance The hills are purple blue. The Spring is up and stirring, The pheasant's wing is whirring, And there is nothing lacking In all the world, but you. HOPES Our hopes are like the mountains that arise, And to our dim, imperfect, human eyes Seem in their splendid height to touch the skies. Yet when we've toiled up, many a weary day, We find the summit, desolate and grey, And lo! the Heavens, still smiling, far away. A MEMORY Ah, dear! how memory stirs, Of meadows and soft-voiced thrushes Of winds that sang amid firs, Or piped on the cool, damp rushes. Of twilights and early dawns, And times when the earth is fairest; Of gardens with dewy lawns, And flowers when their scent is rarest. Of noontide and humming bees, That gather the love of roses; Of night-time and sighing trees, And clouds where the moon reposes. And, dearest,—of just we two, Alone in this world of splendour, Where everything lived for you, In glorious, sweet surrender. THE RIVER Oh, river! sweet river, how placidly you wander, Yet bearing on your bosom so many lovers' vows; Cannot the throb of passion arouse one wave in answer, Or stir to sighing cadence your silent willow boughs? Must always—for ever, your brow be smooth and tranquil, Though hearts may break in anguish, or burn with ecstasy? Is there no secret message that may arouse your wonder At all this vast emotion that thrills Eternity? Some day though, oh, river! you too shall feel the magic Of all your depths awakened, of every tide set free; Remember us in that time, we loving ones who sought you, When you have left the meadows for the embracing sea! TO —— Let not the morning break ere I shall say "Thou art the Sun that brightens all the day, Thou art the Rose that perfumes all the air, Thou art the Soul of all that is most fair." Let not the evening fall ere I shall say "Thou art the Star that guides me on my way, Thou art the Moon whose beams are everywhere, Thou art my rest, my blessing, and my prayer." SHALL I COMPLAIN? Shall I complain because the rain Has spoiled the flowers? Shall I despair because the air Is damp with showers? Shall I forget, that even yet New buds will spring? And shall I sigh while still there's by One bird to sing? TO ——