Select Poetry.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 311, 6 April 1878, Page 3

Select Poetry.

A BROKEN LILY. She stood beneath the linden’s lengthening: shade, Fair English Lily, chaste and calmly glad; False Hope her maiden trust had ne'er betrayed. Nor Memory made her stainless bosom sad. For still in that serene and guileless breast, Sweet Love and steadfast Faith abode as one ; So waited she, alone, in perfect rest, As sleeping flowers await the climbing sun. “ He left me when the Lily last was white, And now again it blossoms. Happy flower ! His honey-lips shall touch thy cup to-night, "Where now I press it. Happier I, a shower Of so sweet kisses waiting ! Waiting! Dear, I chide not thee, nor the slow-loitering days. They have left no shadows, for the hour is here That brightens all with its meredian rays. “ Sweet Lily ! Lo ! he set thee for a sign Between us ; and my heart is wholly clear Of one disroyal wondering thought, as thine AVliite chalice is of stain. I should not fear Could he so search my soul as one may scan This chaste cool cup. Should one not wholly shame To lay on Love’s pure altar other than The perfect gift that fits its flame ?” The linden shadows lengthened, still she stayed The Lily at her lips, which tremulously Shook from their soft repose. The deepening shade Crept down the primrose of a cloudless sky. Was it dim eve that drove the happy rose From that sweet face ? Stars shook in night’s blue dome. And still she stood, that Lily clasped close To a cold heart, and murmured— “ He will come." But he came never. All the Lilies died, And strew’d the sullen earth with sad shed leaves. Not the New Year’s new rose, in all its pride, Could gladden her again. As one who grieves So gently that the sorrow seems new sweetness. She paled and slowly passed. On her dead breast They laid a Lily, type in chaste completeness Of a pure heart now sunk to perfect rest. She lies beneath the yew tree’s changeless gloom— Her gentle soul, reft of its comrade, Love, Went seeking him beyond the undreaded tomb, And finds him far, in fairer fields above. While one who loathes the leaden, lingering years, Creeps sadly on through life, unloved, alone, Bathing, with sorrow’s unavailing tears, The broken Lily sculptured on her stone.