'Don't cry, don't cry for the moon!'
Her restive heart would croon;
Her restive heart of delights and fears,
Of laughter tangled amid her tears,
'Don't cry for the moon!'

For she wanted the moon herself; wanted
The shimmering moon of wealth and love,
The moon of rank and fame that haunted
The heavens above her.
She wanted the moon, and so would sing
To any, with odd caprice, 'Don't cry!
Don't cry for the moon!'—betraying
Her own appeaseless sigh.

'Don't cry, don't cry for the moon!'
It broke her peace at last.
It broke her mind and it broke her heart,
And she died in a place that is set apart
For the moon-criers—who do not know
That the moon's for none—only its glow;
Only its even radiance, cast
On all, with aimless art.

     Dark lowers our fate,
     And terrible the storm that gathers o'er us;
     But nothing, till that latest agony
     Which severs thee from nature, shall un— loose
     This fix'd and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-house,
     In the terrific face of armed law,
     Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be
     I never will forsake thee.
                                             JOANNA BAILLIE

Her hands were clasp'd, her dark eyes raised,
The breeze threw back her hair;
Up to the fearful wheel she gazed—
All that she loved was there.
The night was round her clear and cold,
The holy heaven above,
Its pale stars watching to behold
The might of earthly love.

'And bid me not depart,' she cried;
'My Rudolph, say not so!
This is no time to quit thy side—
Peace! peace! I cannot go.
Hath the world aught for me to fear,
When death is on thy brow?
The world! what means it?—mine is here—
I will not leave thee now.

'I have been with thee in thine hour
Of glory and of bliss;
Doubt not its memory's living power
To strengthen me through this!
And thou, mine honour'd love and true,
Bear on, bear nobly on!
We have the blessed heaven in view
Whose rest shall soon be won.'

And were not these high words to flow
From woman's breaking heart?
Through all that night of bitterest woe
She bore her lofty part;
But oh! with such a glazing eye,
With such a curdling cheek—
Love, love, of mortal agony
Thou, only thou, should'st speak!

The wind rose high—but with it rose
Her voice, that he might hear:
Perchance that dark hour brought repose
To happy bosoms near;
While she sat striving with despair
Beside his tortured form,
And pouring her deep soul in prayer
Forth on the rushing storm.

She wiped the death-damps from his brow
With her pale hands and soft,
Whose touch upon the lute-chords low
Had still'd his heart so oft.
She spread her mantle o'er his breast,
She bathed his lips with dew,
And on his cheek such kisses press'd
As hope and joy ne'er knew.

Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith,
Enduring to the last!
She had her meed—one smile in death—
And his worn spirit pass'd.
While even as o'er a martyr's grave
She knelt on that sad spot,
And, weeping, bless'd the God who gave
Strength to forsake it not!