j^URPLE J^YACINTH 
goRI^OWFUL jR.EGF^Et. 
E might have been—but these are common 
words, 
And yet they make the sum of life’s bewailing, 
They are the echo of those finer chords, 
Whose music we deplore, when unavailing. 
We might have been 
Life knoweth no like misery—the rest 
Are single sorrows; but in this are blended 
All sweet emotions that disturb the breast, 
The light that once was loveliness is ended. 
We might have been ! 
Henceforth, how much of the full heart must he 
A sealed book at whose contents we tremble; 
A still voice mutters ’mid our misery, 
The worst to bear, because it must dissemble. 
We might have been ! 
L. E. Landon. 
JVlEI^CUI^Y— POODNESS. 
jg E good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; 
' ar ' Do noble things, not dream them all day long: 
And so make Life, Death, and that vast For Ever 
One grand, sweet song. 
C. Kingsley. 
76 
