POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 2061, 1 October 1880, Page 3

POETRY.

FOB THE LAST TIME. [From "The Californian."] There comos an end to everything, my dearest: The longest hour of agony must pass, The sweetest hour of joy must end, alas ! And not the strength of all the love thou bearest Can motion back to me tho solemn dawn Of this new journey, whither I am drawn By force resistless and invisible. How the dim light weaves shadows in the room,

And sounds mysterious tremble through the gloom! Thou art so brave, death hath no fears for thee, And love supreme waits in the awful hush, Listening with jealous fears for the dark rush Of angel's wings in this hour given to me For tho last time.

Thou hearest, my beloved—well I know, By the mute agony in those sad eyes— My soul's voice speaking unto thine bo low That it seems unto others echoing sighs. What words would not bo cold at such a time ? But, love, I understand thee, lying hero, And closer hold thy throbbing palm in mine, And wait with thee the end which draweth near. Yet I, that am so quiet, well can feel The pain for thee of this last hour on earth, Nor would I leave thee lonely by our hearth, For all the knowledge dying can reveal, If my will was unto my soul a law. Wo are two ohildren : over us the whole Commanding universo of God doth roll. Draw close and hearken ! for methought I saw An aureate light, and heard a stir of wings— Dear love, I see and hear so many things For the last time.

I have no fear of that whioh is to come— Hast thou had fear when thou wcrt nearing home? If my last sleep be dreamless and profound, Is it not well with me ? Or if it be

Rich in fulfilment of God's promises, May not my spirit murmur unto thee, Coming at eve, upon somo gracious air, To touch thy lips and bring tho visions fair? I will be with thee when the roßes blow, And all the richness of the year doth flow In gorgeous waves of color through the laud. When daisies star the sod, or snow flakes

shroud, When the low sun gold-edges some bright cloud, Or the pure dawn rises at command, Let things speak of me ; make me a part Of all thy life, of all thy loving heart, And keep me always in thy memory As closely as to-night thou holdest me For the last time.

Yet even at this hour there comes a thought— A vision of the time when I shall fade To a dim spectre in thy memory's shade ; But ah ! thy loving eyes too oft have sought The light in mine to wholly lose the trace Of absent features ; thou wilt keep a place In thy heart's temple sacred to thy dead. Dost thou hear musics ? Bend thy patient head . Closer to mine—l cannot see thee now, Though thy mute lips are pressed upon my brow j The dark death angel, Israfel, is near, And a strange light from outer worlds shines clear; I see the glow around theo softly creep— Kiss me once more, dear love, before I sleep, For the last time. Mat N. Hawxby.