POETRY.

THE FLIGHT.

BELOVED, can you hear me ? Take this lantern, Turn it to the wall, lest the light stray—

Then wait for me awhile. I must go back For one last look at the familiar things That prisoned me, for time has made them dear.

And there's a keepsake I would bring away, And I should like, maybe, to peep—just once, For the last time, at those two innocents, Father and—oh foolish heart, oh cruel, Cruel lover, coming with such enchantment That I must rend myself, and live divided, Giving you all my soul, but leaving there The mortal part of me, the mother-heart.

I think all tenderness will die to-night ; I pray it may be so, for should I find, One future day when we're in foreign places, Lonely and homesick, leaning out together From some high lodging window in the hills, Dreaming above the mists and shepherd-cries, Should I find suddenly my hand astray Over your hair, in half unconscious pity —Oh, that maternal gesture would recall The little, wondering eyes, the quivering mouth.

Pleading for comfort—a way children have—

For no reason, no tangible trouble, just need Of solace, they having so little strength to bear The burden of the strange surrounding world.

Could love sustain such probing of past wounds ?

I have not strength enough to be myself, Unchanged, and still susceptible to these Deep mothering instincts. I must crush them down If you're to hold me, happy and resigned In the cradle of enchantment you have woven.

Cradle ? No ! No ! that word is false for you

For what have you to do with things of childhood— You so mute, so passionate, so cruel—

Oh, forgive me, I am distraught to-night,

I wound you, dear ! But think ! I leave so much,

For ever ! There, there, the lantern, take it,

And wait. Oh I dare not look again—

No. I will follow you now. Take my hand.

RICHARD CRURCIL