THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY

ASTOR. LENOX

TILDEN FOUNDATIONS

THE

VICTORIA MAGAZINE.

FEBRUARY, 1879.

HURRYING ON.

URRYING on in the midst of excitement,
Pushing extravagant projects through,
Few of us know or pause ever to question,

Even to ask where we're hurrying to;

Hurrying on over blessings unheeded,

Casting some joy, like the butterfly gone,
What is the good of our wonderful frenzy ?
What is the use of hurrying on?

We have been hurrying on from our cradles—
What else but shadows lie in the past?

We are still hurrying on as expectant

What shall we get for our hurry at last?

Graves are so thick that we cannot well miss them,
Going with only the clothes we shall wear;
Where shall be then all we're hurrying after?

What shall we have with our hurry when there ?

W

Hurrying on in the wake of the phantoms,
Conjured alone in the fever of haste,
Hurrying on with extravagant projects,
Little we reck of the treasures we waste;
Little we think of the diamond moments,

Wealth of eternity planted in time;

The soil for its seed growing barren as ashes,
While we are yet hurrying out of its clime.

God works but slowly-but slowly, my brothers-
Not hurrying onward in passion and strife-
Works with love only, and only for others,

Not for himself in the green fields of life. Let us sit down, and be calm and be thoughtful, Lifting our hearts to eternity's brink;

Let us cease living alone for the present;

Let us cease hurrying-what do you think?

MY ONLY LOVE.

BY EMILIA AYLMER BLAKE,

Author of "A Life Race," "A Crown for Love," &c.

He is no lover who loves not for ever.-Euripides.

But this was taught me by the dove,

To die, and know no second love.
This lesson yet hath man to learn,
Taught by the thing he dares to spurn;
The bird that sings within the brake,

The swan that swims upon the lake,
One mate, and one alone, will take.-Byron.

CHAPTER IX.

THE DESIRE ACCOMPLISHED.

heart.

HAD kept the paper unblotted by any tear of mine. My honour I would hold safe even though my life were wrung from me in the bitter drops I wept, as hot blood from my

That secure, let the rest go!

I had won my hero to my feet.

Not so; Need I tell how I watched and listened for the postman on his round, as if my very existence hung upon his approaching knock, that passed and died away four times every day, or worse, battered at the door beneath on some other's behalf, but brought nothing for me? Two days passed thus, till my strange absence of mind drew remark from the few around me, and then, late in the afternoon, unannounced