Near Hastings.

Near Hastings, on the shingle-beach,     We loitered at the time     When ripens on the wall the peach,     The autumn's lovely prime.     Far off,--the sea and sky seemed blent,     The day was wholly done,     The distant town its murmurs sent,     Strangers,--we were alone.     We wandered slow; sick, weary, faint,     Then one of us sat down,     No nature hers, to make complaint;--     The shadows deepened brown.     A lady past,--she was not young,     But oh! her gentle face     No painter-poet ever sung,     Or saw such saintlike grace.     She past us,--then she came again,     Observing at a glance     That we were strangers; one, in pain,--     Then asked,--Were we from France?     We talked awhile,--some roses red     That seemed as wet with tears,     She gave my sister, and she said,     "God bless you both, my dears!"     Sweet were the roses,--sweet and full,     And large as lotus flowers     That in our own wide tanks we cull     To deck our Indian bowers.     But sweeter was the love that gave     Those flowers to one unknown,     I think that He who came to save     The gift a debt will own.     The lady's name I do not know,     Her face no more may see,     But yet, oh yet I love her so!     Blest, happy, may she be!     Her memory will not depart,     Though grief my years should shade,     Still bloom her roses in my heart!     And they shall never fade!