"DON'T BE SORROWFUL, DAR

LING."

DON'T be sorrowful, darling!

And don't be sorrowful, pray;
Taking the year together, my dear,
There isn't more night than day.
'Tis rainy weather, my darling;

Time's waves they heavily run;
But taking the year together, my dear,
There isn't more cloud than sun.

We are old folks now, my darling,

Our heads are growing gray;

But taking the year all around, my dear,
You will always find the May.

We have had our May, my darling,

And our roses long ago;

And the time of the year is coming, my dear, For the silent night and the snow.

But God is God, my darling,

Of the night as well as the day;
And we feel and know that we can go
Wherever He leads the way.

A God of the night, my darling,
Of the night of death so grim;
The gate that leads out of life, good wife,
Is the gate that leads to Him.

B

REMBRANDT PEALE.

A WOMAN'S QUESTION.

EFORE I trust my fate to thee,

Or place my hand in thine,

Before I let thy future give

Color and form to mine,

Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul to-night for me.

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel

A shadow of regret;

Is there one link within the Past

That holds thy spirit yet?

Or is thy faith as clear and free as that which
I can pledge to thee?

Does there within my dimmest dreams
A possible future shine,

Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe,
Untouched, unshared by mine?

If so, at any pain or cost, O, tell me before all is lost.

Look deeper still. If thou cans't feel,
Within thy inmost soul,

That thou hast kept a portion back,

While I have staked the whole,

Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy tell me so.

Is there within thy heart a need
That mine cannot fulfill?
One chord that any other hand
Could better wake or still?

Speak now-lest at some future day my whole life wither and decay.

Lives there within thy nature hid

The demon-spirit change, Shedding a passing glory still

On all things new and strange?

It may not be thy fault alone-but shield my heart against thine own.

Could'st thou withdraw thy hand one day
And answer to my claim,

That Fate, and that to-day's mistake-
Not thou-had been to blame?

Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou wilt surely warn and save me now.

Nay, answer not-I dare not hear,

The words would come too late; Yet I would spare thee all remorse, So comfort thee, my Fate,

Whatever on my heart may fall-remember I would risk it all!

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

HOW DO I LOVE THEE? LJOW do I love thee? Let me count the ways:

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of each day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's
faith.

I love thee with a love I seem to lose

With my lost saints,-I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life!-and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

LOVE'S IMPRESS.

EJER light foot on a noble heart she set, And went again on her heedless way, Vain idol of so steadfast a regret

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As never but with life could pass away. Youth and youth's easy virtues, made her fair; Triumphant through the sunny hours she ranged,

Then came the winter-bleak, unlovely, bare, Still ruled her image over one unchanged. So, where some trivial creature played of old, The warm soft clay received the tiny dint; We cleave the deep rock's bosom, and behold, Sapped in its core the immemorial print.

Men marvel such frail record should outlive The vanished forests and the hills o'er hurled;

But high, souled love can keep a type alive Which has no living answer in the world. E. HINXMAN.

I ran it through, even from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it.
Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents by flood, and field;
Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent dead-
ly breach;

Of being taken by the insolent foe,

And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,

And portance in my travel's history:
Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle,

I should but teach him how to tell my story, And that would woo her. Upon this hint, I spake:

She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd; And I lov'd her, that she did pity them, This only is the witchcraft I have us'd; Here comes the lady, let her witness it. WILLIAM SHAKSPERE.

LOCHIN VAR.

(From Marmion," Canto V.)

H, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,

Through all the wide border his steed was the best;

And save his good broadsword, he weapons had none,

He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Loch-
invar.

To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof by parcels, she had something heard,
But not intentively. I did consent;
And often did beguile her tears,

When I did speak of some distressful stroke,
That my youth suffer'd. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs;
She swore,-In faith, 'twas strange, 'twas
passing strange;

'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful:

She wish'd she had not heard it; yet she wish'd

That heaven had made her such a man: she

thank'd me;

And bade me, if I had friend that lov'd her,

for stone,

He swam the Eske river where ford there was

none;

But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came

late;

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all;

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,

(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word),

Oh come ye in peace, here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"

"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;

Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide;

And now I am come, with this lost love of mine,

To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.

There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,

That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."