Lady, for thy pity's counting!

What wilt thou exchange for it?'
"And the first time I will send
A white rose-bud for a guerdon,-
And the second time, a glove;
But the third time-I may bend
From my pride, and answer-Pardon,
If he comes to take my love.'
"Then the young foot-page will run—
Then my lover will ride faster,

Till he kneeleth at my knee:

'I am a duke's eldest son! Thousand serfs do call me master,But, O Love, I love but thee!'

"He will kiss me on the mouth Then, and lead me as a lover

Through the crowds that praise his deeds;

And, when soul-tied by one troth, Unto him I will discover

That swan's nest among the reeds."

Little Ellie, with her smile Not yet ended, rose up gaily;

Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe, And went homeward, round a mile, Just to see, as she did daily,

What more eggs were with the two. Pushing through the elm-tree copse, Winding up the stream, light-hearted,

Where the osier pathway leads-
Past the boughs she stoops-and stops.
Lo, the wild swan had deserted—

And a rat had gnawed the reeds.
Ellie went home sad and slow.
If she found the lover ever,

With his red-roan steed of steeds,
Sooth, I know not! but I know
She could never show him—never,
That swan's nest among the reeds.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

SONNET TO SLEEP.

ed away;

The air is balmy with the coming May, A bridal music rings from bush and brake. All things the glory of the time partake;

I would be bright and joyous even as they. But tearful memory dims the golden day; The light glares sickly, while this heart must ache

ARE-CHARMER Sleep, son of the sable For eyes long closed, that fondly turned to Night,

Brother to Death, in silent darkness born,
Relieve my anguish, and restore the light,
With dark forgetting of my care, return.

And let the day be time enough to mourn
The shipwreck of my ill-advised youth;
Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,

mine,

And voices dear forever dumb to me;
Yet, as the warm wind murmurs in the pine,
Sorrow grows mild and sufferance less sore;
I hear soft whispers from the unseen shore,
With promise of eternal Spring to be.

ANONYMOUS.

lak me no

more the mosa mey

The cloud may stoof from heaven & to the the ships.
with fold to fold, of mountain or of cipe,
Best, & too fond, when have I andwind thee?

Tears, ille tears, I know not what they mean, Seard from the depth of some divine despair hise in the heart & gather to the eyes

on the happy Autumn fields,

In looking

And thinking

the days

that are no more