languish,
While wrong, with wealth to garnish it, makes strong the heavy yoke?"

IX.

THE MISER.

'Tis said, that when he saw his child,
And saw the proof that she was his,
The first in many a year he smiled,
And pressed upon her brow a kiss.

In both his hands her hand he bound,
And led her gayly through his place.
He said the dead years circled round,
Hers was so like her mother's face.

He scarcely moves him from her side--
Her every hour with joy beguiles.
To make the gulf between us wide,
He acts the miser of her smiles.

He brings her presents rich and rare--
Wrought gold by cunning hands impearled,
Round opals that with scarlet glare,
The lightning of each mimic world.

X.

SHE PASSED ME BY.

She bowed, and smiled, and passed me by,
She passed me by!
O love, O lava breath that burns,
'Tis hard indeed to think she spurns
Such worshippers as you and I.
She smiled, and bowed, with stately pride;
The bow the frosty smile belied.
She passed me by.

She bowed, and smiled, and passed me by,
She passed me by.
What more could any maiden do?
It did not prove she was untrue.
My heart is tired, I know not why.
I only know I weep and pray.
Love has its night as well as day.
She passed me by.

XI.

MIND WITHOUT SOUL.

Some strange story I have read
Of a man without a soul.
Mind he had, though soul had fled;
Magic gave him gifts instead,
And the form of youth he stole.

Grows a rose-azalea white,
In my garden, near the way.
I who see it with delight,
Dream its soul of odor might,
In the past, have fled away.

Blanche (O, sweet, you are so fair,
So sweet, so fair, whate'er you do),
Twine no azalea in your hair,
Lest I think in my despair,
Heart and soul have left you too.

XII.

A BROKEN SWORD.

Deep in the night I saw the sea,
And overhead, the round moon white;
Its steel cold gleam lay on the lea,
And seemed my sword of life and light,
Broke in that war death waged with me.

I heard the dip of golden oars;
Twelve angels stranded in a boat;
We sailed away for other shores;
Though but an hour we were afloat,
We harbored under heavenly doors.

O, Blanche, if I had run my race,
And if I wore my winding sheet,
And mourners went about the place,
Would you so much as cross the street,
To kiss in death my white, cold face?

XIII.

A CHANCE FOR GAIN.

I