p that welcometh
The clearing or the lowering weather--
The joy or pain--heart answering heart!
Are we not friends till Death us part?

Then mount with me the rugged hill
And let our thoughts go seaward soaring,
Until in fancy's ear there sound
The chime of surf, the tempest's roaring;
And, by the sun-glint on the sea,
We trace the years that are to be.

My other self, why bound by death
The compass of our friendship's reaching?
Why doubt the promptings of our hearts,
Or falsify our spirits' teaching?
Must not the friends beneath the sod
Still walk amid the trees of God?

1903.

_Literary Monthly_, 1909

[Footnote 1: Died 1908.]

LORRAINE--1870

ANON.

I

Sweetly the June-time twilights wane
Over the hills of fair Lorraine,

Sweetly the mellow moonbeams fall
O'er rose-wreathed cottage and ivied wall.

But never dawned a brighter eve,
Than the holy night of St. Genevieve.

And never moonlight fairer fell,
Over the banks of the blue Moselle.

Richly the silver splendor shines,
Spangles with sheen the clustered vines,

And rests, in benediction fair,
On midnight tresses and golden hair.

Golden hair and midnight tress,
Mingle in tender lovingness,

While the evening breezes breathe upon
Marie and Jean,--and their hearts are one!

"The spell of silence lifts at last,
Marie, the saint's sweet day is past!

"Her vesper chimes have died away,
Where shall we be on Christmas day?"

With answering throb heart thrilled to heart,
Hand met hand with sudden start.

For in each soul shone the blessed thought,
The vision fair of a little cot,

Nestled beneath the lilac spray,
Waiting the blissful bridal day!

Low bowed in tearful silence there,
Their hearts rose up in solemn prayer,

And still the mellow lustre fell
Over the banks of the blue Moselle.

And still the moonlight shone upon
Marie and Jean,--and their hearts were one!

II

Six red moons have rolled away,
And the sun is shining on Christmas day.

Over the hills of fair Lorraine--
Heaps of ashes and rows of slain.

Where merrily rang the light guitar,
The angry trump of the red hussar

Flings on the midnight's shrinking breath,
The direful notes of the Dance of Death!

Underneath the clustered vines,
The sentry's glittering saber shines.

Over the banks of the blue Moselle,
Rain of