HENRY VAUGHAN.
*
PATIENCE.
She hath no beauty in her face
Unless the chastened sweetness there,
And meek long-suffering, yield a grace
To make her mournful features fair:—
Shunned by the gay, the proud, the young,
She roams through dim, unsheltered ways;
Nor lover's vow, nor flatterer's tongue
Brings music to her sombre days:—
At best her skies are clouded o'er,
And oft she fronts the stinging sleet,
Or feels on some tempestuous shore
The storm-waves lash her naked feet.
Where'er she strays, or musing stands
By lonesome beach, by turbulent mart,
We see her pale, half-tremulous hands
Crossed humbly o'er her aching heart!
Within, a secret pain she bears,—
pain too deep to feel the balm
An April spirit finds in tears;
Alas! all cureless griefs are calm!
Yet in her passionate strength supreme,
Despair beyond her pathway flies,
Awed by the softly steadfast beam
Of sad, but heaven-enamored eyes!
Who pause to greet her, vaguely seem
Touched by fine wafts of holier air;
As those who in some mystic dream
Talk with the angels unaware!
PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.