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BIKD OF PASSAGE.

SS the day's last light is (lying, Let it perch on your sill; or, better,

§§ As the night's first breeze is sighing, Let it feel your soft hand's fetter,

1 send you, love, like a messenger-dove, my While you search and bring, from under its wing, love, thought through the distance flying; hidden away like a letter.

Edgar Fawcett.

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IfOME, all ye jolly shepherds

That whistle through the glen.
I "ll tell ye of a secret

That courtiers dmua ken:
What is the greatest bliss

That the tongue o' man can name?
'Tis to woo a bouny lassie
When the kye comes name!

When the kye comes hame,
When the kye comes hame.
'Tween the gloaming and the mirk,
When the kye comes hame!

*Tis not beneath the coronet,

Nor canopy of state,
Tis not on couch of velvet,

Nor arbor of the great,—
'Tis beneath the spreading birk,

Iu the glen without the name,
Wl' a bonny, bonny lassie,

When the kye comes hame!

There the blackbird bigs his nest

For the mate he loes to see,
And on the topmost bough,

O, a happy bird is he;
Where he poms his melting ditty.

And love is a' the theme,
And he "ll woo his bonny lassie

When the kye comes hame!

When the blewart bears a pearl,
And the daisy turns a pea,

And I he bonny lucken gowan

lias fauldit up her ee, Then the laverock frae the blue lift

Doops down, an' thmks nae shame To woo his bonny lassie

When the kye comes hame!

Sec yonder pawkie shepherd,

That lingers on the hill, His ewes are in the fauld,

An" his iambs are lying still; Yet he downa gang to bed.

For his heart is in a flame, To meet his bonny lassie

When the kye comes hame!

When the little wee bit heart

Rises high in the breast, An' the little wee bit starn

Rises red in the east, O there's a joy sac dear.

That the heart can hardly frame, Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie,

When the kye comes hame!

Then since all nature joins

In this love without alloy,
O, wha wad prove a traitor

To nature's dearest joy?
O, wha wad choose a crown,

Wi' its perils and its fame,
And miss his bonny lassie

^Vllen the kye comes hame?

James Hogg.

May all go well with you! May life's short day glide on peaceful and bright, with no more clouds than may glisten in the sunshine, no more rain than may form a rainbow; and may the veiled one of heaven bring us to meet again.

THE PATRIOT'S BRIDE.

jj|ll! give me back that royal dream , My fancy wrought,

When I have seen your sunny eyes

Grow moist with thought; And fondly hoped, dear Love, your heart from mine

Its spell had caught; And laid me down to dream that dream divine, But true, methought, Of how my life's long task would be, to make yours blessed as it ought.

To learn to love sweet Nature more

For your sweet sake,
To watch with you — dear friend, with you!—

Its wonders break;
The sparkling spring in that bright face to see

Its mirror make —
On summer morns to hear the sweet birds sing

By linn and lake; And know your voice, your magic voice, could still a grander music wake!

To wake the old weird world that sleeps

In Irish lore;
The strains sweet foreign Spenser sung

By Mulla's shore;
Dear Curran's airy thoughts, like purple birds

That shine and soar;
Tone's fiery hopes, and all the deathless vows

That Grattan swore; The songs that once our own dear Davis sung — ah, me! to sing no more.

And all those proud old victor-fields

We thrill to name,
Whose memories are the stars that light

Long nights of shame;
The Cairn, the Dan, the Rath, the Power, the Keep,

That still proclaim In chronicles of clay and stone, how true, how deep

Was Eire's fame; Oh! we shall see them all, with her, that dear, dear friend we two have lov'd the same.

Yet ah! how truer, tenderer still

Methought did seem
That scene of tranquil joy, that happy home

By Dodder's stream,
The morning smile, that grew a fixSd star

With love-lit beam,
The ringing laugh, locked hands, and all the far

And shining stream Of daily love, that made our daily life diviner than a dream.

For still to me, dear Friend, dear Love,

Or both — dear wife,
Your image comes with serious thoughts,

But tender, rife;
No idle plaything to caress or chide

In sport or strife,
But my best chosen friend, companion, guide,

To walk through life, Linked hand in hand, two equal, loving friends, true husband and true wife.

Silt Charles Gavan Duffy.

JANETTE'S HAIR.

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, loosen the snood that you wear Janette, HP Let me tangle a hand in your hair — my pet; For the world to me had no daintier sight Than your brown hair veiling your shoulder white;

Your beautiful dark brown hair— my pet.

It was brown with a golden gloss, Janette,
It was finer than silk of the floss — my pet;
'Twas a beautiful mist falling down to your wrist.
'Twas a thing to be braided, and jeweled, and kissed —
'Twas the loveliest hair in the world — my pet.

My arm was the arm of a clown, Janette,
It was sinewy, bristled and brown — my pet;
But warmly and softly it loved to caress
Your round white neck and your wealth of tress,
Your beautiful plenty of hair—my pet.

Your eyes had a swimming glory, Janette,
Revealing the old, dear story — my pet;

They were gray with that chastened tinge of the sky
When the trout leaps quickest to snap the fly,
And they matched with your golden hair — my pet-

Your lips — but I have no words. Janette —
They were fresh as the twitter of birds — my pet,
When the spring is young, and roses are wet,
With the dew-drops in each red bosom set,
And they suited your gold-brown hair — my pet

Oh, you tangled my life in your hair, Janette,
'Twas a silken and golden snare —my pet;
But, so gentle the bondage, my soul did implore
The right to continue your slave evermore,

With my fingers enmeshed in your hair — my pet.

Thus ever I dream what you were, Janette,
With your lips and your eyes and your hair — my pet;
In the darkness of desolate years I moan,
And my tears fall bitterly over the stone
That covers your golden hair — my pet.

Charles Graham Halpine.

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THE BROOKSIDE.

pt, WANDERED by the brookside, §B» I wandered by the mill;

I could not hear the brook flow — * The noisy wheel was still;

There was no burr of grasshopper,

No chirp of any bird,
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elm-tree;

I watched the long, long shade,
And as it grew still longer,

I did not feel afraid;
For I listened for a footfall,

I listened for a word —
But the beating of my own heart

Was all the sound I heard.

He came not — no, he came not—

The night came on alone —
The little stars sat one by one

Each on his golden throne;
The evening wind passed by my cheek,

The leaves above were stirred —
But the beating of my own heart

Was all the sound I heard.

Fast, silent tears were flowing,

When something stood behind; A hand was on my shoulder —

I knew its touch was kind;
It drew me nearer — nearer —

We did not speak one word,
For the beating of our own hearts

Was all the sound I heard.

Richard Honckton Milnf.s.

(Lord Houghton).

HE OLD STORY.

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To see from your lattice the lamp-light shine— Type of a message that, half divine,

Flashed from your heart to mine.

Once more the starlight is silvering all;
The roses sleep by the garden wall;
The night bird warbles his madrigal,
And I hear again through the sweet air fall
The evening bugle call.

But summers will vanish and years will wane,
And bring no light to your window-pane;
No gracious sunshine or patient rain
Can bring dead love back to life again:
I call up the past in vain.

My heart is heavy, my heart is old,
And that [troves dross which I counted gold;
I watch no longer your curtain's fold;
The window is dark and the night is cold,
And the story forever told.

Elizabeth Aeeks Allen.

(Florence Percy).

EYEXING SONG.

°OOK off, dear Love, across the sallow sands, And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea: '£L: - S How long they kiss in sight of all the lauds— Ah! longer, longer we.

Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun,
As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine,

And Cleopatra night drinks all. 'Tis done.

Love, lay thine hand in mine.

Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart;

Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands. O Sight! divorce our sun and sky apart — Never our lips, our hauds.

Sidney Laxier.

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I DO CONFESS THOTT 'RT SWEET.

DO confess thou 'it sweet, yet find The morning rose, that untouched stands.

Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets. Armed with her briers, how sweetly smells!

Thy favors are but like the wind, But plucked and strained through ruder hands.

That kisses everything it meets. Her sweet no longer with her dwells;

And since thou can with more than one, But scent and beauty both are gone,

Thou 'rt worthy to be kissed by none. And leaves fall from her, one by one.

Sir Robert Ayton.

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