FIRST VOICE. "Faint not, though your bleeding feet CONCERT. As a white rose in its pride, Tossed and loosened from the branch, Repeat Chorus, "Give us back," etc., ending thus: HELIOTROPE. AMID the chapel's chequered gloom But when he spoke of varied lore, A look half fond, half reverential. And he had learned, among his books, Her sunny smiles, her winsome ways, Yet "What am foolish I to him ?" She whispered to her one confessor. Yet once, when Christmas bells were rung Nor came she more, from day to day, The ever-silent snows were drifting: And loved another in her place- But in the tender twilight gray, Shut from the sight of carping critic, Mock with its past the sad possessor Of the dead spray of heliotrope THE LAST RIDE. HIGH o'er the snow-capped peaks of blue the stars are out to-night, And the silver crescent moon hangs low. I watched it on my right, Moving above the pine-tops tall, a bright and gentle shape, While I listened to the tales you told of peril and escape. Then, mingled with your voices low, I heard the rumbling sound Of wheels adown the farther slope, that sought the level ground; And suddenly, from memories that never can grow dim, Flashed out once more the day when last I rode with English Jem. 'Twas here, in wild Montana, I took my hero's gauge. From Butte to Deer Lodge, four-in-hand, he drove the mountain stage; And many a time, in sun or storm, safe mounted at his side, I whiled away with pleasant talk the long day's weary ride. Jem's faithful steeds had served him long, of mettle true and tried: One sought in vain for trace of blows upon their glossy hide; And to each low command he spoke the leader's nervous ear Bent eager, as a lover waits his mistress' voice to hear. With ringing crack the leathern whip, that else had idly hung, Kept time for many a rapid mile to English songs he sung; And yet, despite his smile, he seemed a lonely man to be, With not one soul to claim him kin on this side of the sea. But after I had known him long, one mellow even ing-time He told me of his English Rose, who withered in her prime; And how, within the churchyard green, he laid her down to rest. With her sweet babe, a blighted bud, upon her frozen breast. "I could not stay," he said, "where she had left me all alone! The very hedge-rose that she loved I could not look upon! I could not hear the mavis sing, or see the long grass wave, And every little daisy-bank seemed but my darling's grave! "Yet somehow-why, I cannot tell-but when I wandered here, |