Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!

Christ the Lord is risen again,--
Hear'st thou not the glad refrain,--
Have those gentle lips no breath,
Smiling in the trance of death?--
Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!

In the grave from whence He rose,
Lay thee to thy long repose,--
Sweet with myrrh and spices,--sweet
With the footprints of His feet,--
Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!

Where His sacred head hath lain,
Thine may rest, secure from pain.
While the circling years go round,
Without motion,--without sound,--
Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!



THE WATCH-LIGHT.


Above the roofs and chimney-tops,
And through the slow November rain,
A light from some far attic pane,
Shines twinkling through the water-drops.