546 ORPHEUS EVERTS. [1850-60. THE DEAD. Why do we mourn for the dead ? Are they not in Freedom's embrace? Like serfs who have looked in the face Of their Tyrant, less noble than they ! And felt that their chains were disgrace, And proudly have cast them away ! Why do we mourn for the dead ? Are they not more blessed by far ? Like heroes gone home from the war With laurels — whilst we in the field. In the moats and the ditches still war, Ere we to the conqueror yield ! Why do we mourn for the dead ? Are they not still better than we ? Like mariners gone from the sea, With its troubles, and breakers, and foam. Gone off from th' tempestuous sea, To peace, and the quiet of home. Why do we mourn for the dead ? What is their state, and our own ? Like emigrants gone to a zone Of beauty, of love, and of light, Are they — while around us, alone. Are darkness, and winter, and blight. HEART AND SOUL. Love took my heart and sought a wife. Saying "Who will have it?"—" I," said one. My heart leaped toward her, and there spun Through every vein new threads of life. But when my Soul looked out, and knew Whither my heart had gone, it said, " Come back ! come back ! without me, wed, Thy life to her will prove untrue !" And so my soul took back my heart And buried it within my breast ; Saying " Rest, thou foolish blind one, rest! For thou and I shouldst never part." And though love since hath often knocked. And asked my heart to go astray, My soul refused to point the way, Or ope' the cell wherein 'twas locked. And though it oft laments its fate, And strives to be released, my soul, Relentless, keeps it in control With " Wait a little longer, wait ! " Thei'e'U come a time, I know not when, Some one will ask my soul to sup : My heart shall leap into the cup, And all as one shall mingle then. WINTER RAIN. How dreary is the winter rain — How dismal, and how dark the hour — How bitter, and how cold the shower, That never seems the clouds to drain ! How spiritless the winter rain. It hath no voice to make it grand! No lightnings leap from out the hand That drives it o'er the land and main ! There is no clieer in winter rain, Like that which falls in April days — Which swelling buds and liowers all praise — And brings forth laughter from the plain !
