THREE PICTURES.

UPON the threshold of his guarded home

Stands Love the child.

A thousand roses bloom above his head

With rain of dewy petals white and red;

All fair and joyous things themselves array

To deck and soften for dear Love the way.

He stands where often he has stood before;

But now his face is pale, his eyes all wild,

A strange and boding tread has caught his ear,

An awful, hovering shape sweeps into view,

And all his soul is rent with wrath and fear —

What can Love do?

Poor Love! brave Love! he nerves his feeble arm,

He grasps his bow;

The dreadful guest has seized the rainbow wings.

In vain Love strives with tears and shudderings,

In vain he lifts appealing eyes of prayer;

There is no pity or relenting there.

No power has Love to deprecate or charm,

Vain are his puny wiles against this foe;

The roses wither in the icy breath

Which eddies the defenceless portals through,

And, brushing Love aside, in passes Death —

What can Love do?