A Long Mourning

They tell her she has wept him long,
They bid her weep no more ;
They point her to the shouting throng
\Vho welcomed her of yore.

Two years — 'Tis long to weep the good,
The heart which loved her best ;
The great deep heart which ever glowed
In her full answering breast.

What gain to grieve ? what gain in sooth
That face to face is pressed
One warm, and one dead-cold, where both
With life brimful caressed ?

And Echo breathes : What gain, what gain
To call the silent dead—
To call athwart the wind and rain
That sweep their lonely bed ?

Had Shylock taken that living flesh
Close on the heart decreed.
How vain that breast all quivering fresh
To ask : What gain to bleed ?

We bid her idly, meaning well,
Be glad again as we :
Her sun is down as theirs who dwell
Far, far, beyond the sea !

Erect she walked in all her ways
Ere nightfall stayed her foot ;
Scarce may she thrid the dance's maze
Whose music all is mute.

VIII
Or must she wear that lying smile
Which chafes the wounded heart ?
O ! let the stricken deer awhile
Dwell, as she craves, apart !

A woman she — I well believe
You wealthy ones and high
May deem a wife most weak to grieve
If a mere husband die.

If lives the greed you loved in him,
Though that brave heart be cold.
Weak sterile tears may only dim
Charms hourly growing old.

The young, the generous, the wise,
Sleeps dark for evermore ;
Pale shivering trees where he low lies
Wild wind and rain sweep o'er.

Sweep you more callous o'er the mute,
And ogling drawl " We pro%'e
Our faith resigned " — Your breaths pollute
A genuine woman's love !

She weeps with them, mean company !
Who own a human heart.
No more — their Father bring them nigh
Their sleepers, ne'er to part !