faith and half in doubt, Yet she heard the varying message, | So with proverbs and caresses, half in voiceless to all ears beside: "He will come," the flowers whispered; "Come no more," the dry hills sighed. Still she found him with the waters lifted Until hollows chased the dimples from Or the small mouth curved and quivered as for some denied caress, And the fair young brow was knitted in an infantine distress. Then the grim Commander, pacing where Bits of ancient observation by his fathers garnered, each Everv day some hope was kindled, flickered, faded, and went out. As a pebble worn and polished in the So in vain the barren hillsides with their current of his speech: gay serapes blazed, Blazed and vanished in the dust-cloud that their flying hoofs had raised. FRANCIS BRET HARTE. 301 And the citadel was lighted, and the hall | Till one arose, and from his pack's scant was gayly drest, traveller and guest. All to honor Sir George Simpson, famous Far and near the people gathered to the costly banquet set, And And exchanged congratulation with the And English baronet; treasure A hoarded volume drew, cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure To hear the tale anew; then, while round them shadows gathered faster, And as the firelight fell, Till the formal speeches ended, and He read aloud the book wherein the The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, And on that grave where English oak painted The ruddy tints of health On haggard face, and form that drooped and fainted In the fierce race for wealth; and holly And laurel wreaths entwine, Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly, This spray of Western pine! THEY gave the whole long day to idle I KNEW a Princess: she was old, laughter, To fitful song and jest, To moods of soberness as idle, after, But when at last upon their way returning, Taciturn, late, and loath, Through the broad meadow in the sunset burning, They reached the gate, one fine spell hindered them both. Her heart was troubled with a subtile anguish Such as but women know That wait, and lest love speak or speak not languish, And what they would, would rather they would not so; Crisp-haired, flat-featured, with a look Such as no dainty pen of gold Would write of in a Fairy Book. So bent she almost crouched, her face Was like the Sphinx's face, to me, Touched with vast patience, desert grace, And lonesome, brooding mystery. What wonder that a faith so strong As hers, so sorrowful, so still, Should watch in bitter sands so long, Obedient to a burdening will! Till he said, man-like nothing compre- But of a subtler, fiercer Thing: hending Of all the wondrous guile That women won win themselves with, and bending Eyes of relentless asking on her the while, Not of the Lamp, not of the Ring, That at her side the whitest queen Were dark, her darkness was so fair. Nothing of loveliest loveliness This strange, sad Princess seemed to lack; Majestic with her calm distress She was, and beautiful though black: Then she-whom both his faith and fear Black, but enchanted black, and shut enchanted Far beyond words to tell, Feeling her woman's finest wit had wanted The art he had that knew to blunder so well In some vague Giant's tower of air, Built higher than her hope was. But The True Knight came and found her there. The Knight of the Pale Horse, he laid Shyly drew near, a little step, and mock-That hid her Self: as if afraid, ing, "Shall we not be too late For tea?" she said. "I'm quite worn out with walking: Yes, thanks, your arm. And will you -open the gate?" The cruel blackness shrank and fell. Then, lifting slow her pleasant sleep, And vanished up an awful Height. All the hearts are not dead, nor under the sod, That those breaths can blow open to Heaven and God! Ah, "Silver Street" leads by a bright golden road, -O, not to the hymns that in harmony flowed, But those sweet human psalms in the old-fashioned choir, To the girl that sang alto, -the girl that sang air! "Let us sing in His praise," the good minister said, All the psalm-books at once fluttered open at "York,' Sunned their long dotted wings in the words that he read, While the leader leaped into the tune just ahead, And politely picked up the key-note with a fork, And the vicious old viol went growling along, At the heels of the girls, in the rear of the song. I need not a wing, -bid no genii come, With a wonderful web from Arabian loom, To bear me again up the river of Time, |