“Many Things Thou Hast Given Me, Dear Heart.”

Many things thou hast given me, dear heart; But one thing thou hast taken: that high dream Of heaven as of a country that should seem Beyond all glory that divinest art Has pictured:--with this I have had to part Since knowing thee;--how long, love, will the gleam Of each day’s sunlight on my pathway stream, Richer than what seemed richest at the start? Make my days happy, love; yet I entreat Make not each happier than the last for me; Lest heaven itself should dawn to me, complete In joy, not the surprise I dreamed ’twould be, But simply as the natural and sweet Continuance of days spent here with thee.

BRUTUS AT PHILIPPI.

Rome, for whose haughtier sake proud Cæsar made His legions hers, to win her victories, Denied him when her gods let Casca’s blade Pierce him who learned to make her legions his. Still he is mighty; with unchanging dread Her people murmur for great Cæsar slain; Nor value, at the price of Cæsar dead, Their greater cause lost on Philippi’s plain. If haply there are fields, as some pretend, Beyond the silent Styx, where vaguely grim Souls of dead heroes, shadowy and dim, Awake,--I may find entrance at life’s end, Not as a hero who freed Rome from him, But as a man who once was Cæsar’s friend!