love’s token-flowers. 91 
Come back, come back, my brother; till thou 
the Priest art come 
The oracles of mystic life within our souls are 
dumb ; 
We live too much ’mid outward things, the spir¬ 
it’s light grows dim, 
And only an unsullied hand the sacred flame 
may trim. 
NIGHT-SHADE. —Soiaitom Nigrum 
Dark Thoughts. 
Ah ! is this, then, the common lot— 
The end of earthly love and trust? 
To be by cherished ones forgot, 
When the frail body sleeps in dust ? 
Shall hearts, which now with love run o'er, 
Retain ior us no deeper trace 
Than leaves the footprint on the shore, 
Which the next wavelet may efface ? 
Shall those who once could only live 
Within the sunshine of our smile, 
