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I saw her pace, with quiet grace, the shaded path along.

And pause to pluck a flower, or hear the thrush's song.

Denied by her proud father as a suitor to be seen, She came to me, with loving trust, my gracious little queen.

Above my station, heaven knows, that gentle maiden shone,

For she was belle and wide beloved, and I a youth unknown.

The rich and great about her thronged, and sought on bended knee

For love this gracious princess gave, with all her heart, to me.

So like a startled fawn before my longing eyes she stood,

With all the freshness of a girl in flush of womanhood.

I trembled as I put my arm about her form divine, And stammered, as in awkward speech, I begged her to be mine.

'Tis sweet to hear the pattering rain, that lulls a dimlit dream —

'Tis sweet to hear the song of birds, and sweet the

rippling stream; "Tis sweet amid the mountain pines to hear the south

winds sigh.

More sweet than these and all beside was the loving, low reply.

The little hand I held in mine held all I had of life, To mold its better destiny and soothe to sleep its strife.

'Tis said that angels watch o'er men, commissioned from above;

My angel walked with me on earth, and gave to me her love.

Ah! dearest wife, my heart is stirred, my eyes are dim with tears —

I think upon the loving faith of all these bygone years,

For now we stand upon this spot, as in that dewy morn,

With the bloom upon the alder and the tassel on the corn.

Don Piatt.

THE GO¥AN GLITTERS ON THE SWARD.

SHE gowan glitters on the sward, The laverock's in the sky, *5£3And Collie on my plaid keeps ward, Tf And time is passing by. O, no! sad and slow,

And lengthened on the ground; The shadow of our trysting bush It wears so slowly round.

My sheep-bells tinkle frac the west,

My lambs are bleating near:
But still the sound that I love best,
Alack! I canna hear.
O, no! sad and slow,

The shadow lingers still;
And like a lanely gaist I stand,
And croon upon the hill.

I hear below the water roar,
The mill wi' clacking din,
And Lucky scolding frae the door,
To ca' the bairnies in.
0, no! sad and slow,

These are nae sounds for me;
The shadow of our trysting bush
It creeps sae drearily.

I coft yestreen, frae Chapman Tam,

A snood o' bounie blue,
And promised, when our trysting cam',
To tie it round her brow.
O. no! sad and slow.

The mark it winna' pass;
The shadow o' that dreary bush
Is tethered on the grass.

O, now I see her on the way!

She's past the witch's knowe;
She's climbing up the brownie's brae;
My heart is in a lowe.
O, no! 'tis not so,

'Tis glamrie I hae seen;
The shadow o' that hawthorn bush
Will move nae mair till e'en.

My book o' grace I'll try to read,
Though conned wi' little skill;
When Collie barks I'll raise my head,
And find her on the hill.
O, no! sad and slow,

The time will ne'er be gane;
The shadow o' our trysting bush
Is fixed like ony stane.

Joanna Baillie.

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OTSgT Paris it was, at the opera there;

Kll And she looked like a queen in a book that

±ff night,

With the wreath of pearls in her raven hair,
And the brooclmn her breast so bright.

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote.
The best, to my taste, is the Trovator<S;

And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note,
The souls in purgatory.

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow;

And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low,

"Non ti scordar di me?"

The Emperor there, in his box of state,
Looked grave; as if he had just seen

The red Hag wave from the city gate,
Where his eagles in bronze had been.

The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye:
You'd have said that her fancy had gone back
again,

For one moment, under the old blue sky
To the old glad life in Spain.

Well, there in our front-row box we sat
Together, my bride betrothed and I;

My gaze was fixed on my opera-hat,
And hers on the stage hard by.

And both were silent, and both were sad —
Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm,

With that l egal, indolent air she had —
So confident of her charm!

I have not a doubt she was thinking then
Of her former lord, good soul that lie was,

Wlu died the richest and roundest of men,
The Marquis of Carabas.

I hope that to get to the kingdom of heaven,
Through a needle's eye he had not to pass;

I wish him well for the jointure given
To my lady of Carabas.

Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love
As [ had not been thinking of aught for years;

Till over my eyes there began to move
Something that felt like tears.

I thought of the dress that she wore last time,
When we stood 'neath the cypress-trees together,

In that lost land, in that soft clime,
In the pleasant evening weather;

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot),
And her warm white neck in its golden chain;

And her full soft hair, just tied in a knot,
And falling loose again;

Of the jasmine flower that she wore in her breast,
(O the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower!)

And the one bird singing alone in his nest,
And the one star over the tower.

I thought of our little quarrels and strife.
And the letter that brought me back my ring;

And it all seemed then, in the waste of life,
Such a very little thing!

For I thought of her grave below the hill,
Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over:

And I thought, "Were she only living still,
How I could forgive her and love her!"

And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour.
And of how, after all, old things are best.

That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower
Which she used to wear in her breast.

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet,
It made me creep, and it made me cold!

Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet
Where a mummy is half unrolled.

And I turned and looked: she was sitting there,
In a dim box over the stage; and drest

In that muslin dress, with that full soft, hair,
And that jasmine in her breast!

I was here, and she was there;

And the glittering horseshoe curved between!— From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair

And her sumptuous scornful mien,

To my early love with her eyes downcast.
And over her primrose face the shade,

(In short, from the future back to the past.)
There was but a step to be made.

To my early love from my future bride
One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door,

I traversed the passage; and down at her side
I was sitting, a moment more.

My thinking of her, or the music's strain,
Or something which never will be exprest,

Had brought her back from the grave again,
With the jasmine iu her breast.

She is not dead, and she is not wed!

But she loves me now, and she loved me then! And the very lirst word that her sweet lips said,

My heart grew youthful again.

The marchioness there, of Carabas,

She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still; And but for her — well, we '11 let that pass;

She may marry whomever she will.

But I will marry my own first love,

With her primrose face, for old things are best; And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above

The brooch in my lady's breast.

The world is filled with folly and sin,
And love must cling where it can, I say:

For beauty is easy enough to win;
But one is n't loved every day.

And I think, in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth and even,

If only the dead could find out when
To come back and be forgiven.

But O, the smell of that jasmine flower!

And O, the music! and O, the way
That voice rang out from the donjon tower —

Non ti scordar di me,

Non ti scordar di me!

Robert Bclwer Lytton.

THE WELCOME.

)ME in the evening or come in the morning, Come when you're looked for, or come without warning,

Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, And the ofteuer you come here the more I'll adore you.

Light is iny heart since the day we were plighted,
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted;
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever,
And the linnets are singing, "True lovers, don't
sever!"

I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them;
Or. after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom.
I'll letch frorr. the mountain its breeze to inspire you;
I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you.
Oh! your step's like the rain to the summer-vexed
farmer,

Or saber and shield to a knight without armor;

I'll sing you sweet songs ( ill the stars rise above me.

Then, wandering, I'll wish you, iu sileuce, to love

me.

We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the eyrie,
We'll tread round the rath on the track of the faiiy.
We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river,
Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her.
Oh! she'll whisper you, "Love, as unchangeably
beaming,

And trust, when in secret most tunefully streaming,
Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver,
As our souls flow in one down eternity's river."

So come in the evening or come in the morning,
Come when you're looked for, or come without warn-
ing,

Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you,
And the ofteuer you come here the more I'll adore you!

Light is my heart since the day we were plighted;

Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted;

The green of the trees looks far greener than ever.

And the linnets are singing, "True lovers, don't sever."

Thomas Davis.

Never burn kindly written letters: it is so pleasant to read them over when the ink is brown, the paper yellow with age, and the hands that traced the friendly words are folded over the hearts that prompted them. Keep all loving letters. Burn only the harsh ones, and in burning, forgive and forget them.

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My lambkins around me would oftentimes play,
And Ptaosbe and I were as joyful as they;
How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time.
When Spring, Love, and Beauty were all in theit
prime:

But now, in their frolics when by me they pass,
I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass;
Be still, then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad,
To see you so merry while I am so sad.

My dog T was ever well pleas6d to see Come wagging his tnil to my fair one and me; And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said, "Come hither, poor fellow;" and patted his head. But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look Cry "Sirrah!" and give him a blow with my crook:

And I'll give him another; for why should not TrayBe as dull as his master, when Phoebe's aw ay?

When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I seen,

How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green!
What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade,
The cornfields and hedges and everything made!
But now she has left me, though all are still there,
They none of them now so delightful appear:
T was naught but the magic, I find, of her eyes,
Made so many beautiful prospects arise.

Sweet music went with us both all the wood through,

The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale, too; Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat. And chirp! went the grasshopper under our feet.

But now she is absent, though still they sing on,
The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone:
Her voice in the concert, as now I have found,
Gave everything else its agreeable sound.

Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue?
And where is the violet's beautiful blue?
Docs aught of its sweetness the blossoms beguile?
That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile?
Ah! rivals, I see why it was that you drest,
And made yourselves line for—a place in her breast;
You put on your colors to pleasure her eye,
To be plucked by her hand, on her bosom to die.

How slowly Time creeps till my Phoabe return! While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn: Methinks if I knew whereabouts he would tread, I could breathe on his wings, and 't would melt

down the lead. Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear, And rest so much longer for't when she is here. Ah, Colin! old Time is full of delay, Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst

say.

Will no pitying power, that hears me complain, Or cure my disquiet or soften my pain? To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove; But what swain is so silly to live without love! No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return, For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn. Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair, Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your fair.

John Bykom.

LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT.

|lIE racing river leaped and sang

Full blithely in the perfect weather. All round the mountain echoes rang, For blue and green were glad together

This rains out light from every part.

And that with songs of joy was thrilling; But in the hollow of my heart.

There ached a place that wanted filling.

Before the road and river meet,

And stepping-stones are wet and glisten, I heard a sound of laughter sweet,

And paused to like it, and to listen.

I heard the chanting waters flow,

The cushat's note, the bee's low humming.

Then turned the hedge, and did not know —
How could I? that my time was coming.

A girl upon the highest stone,
Half doubtful of the deed, was standing.

So far the shallow flood had flown,
Beyond the 'customed leap of landing.

She knew not any need of me.
Yet me she wanted all unweeting;

She thought not I had crossed the sea,
And half the sphere, to give her meeting.

I waded out, her eyes I met,

I wished the moments had been hours; I took her in my arms and set

Her dainty feet among the flowers.

Her fellow-maids in copse and lane,
Ah! still, methinks, I hear them calling;

The wind's soft whisper in the plain,
That cushat's coo, the water's falling.

But now it is a year ago,

And now possession crowns endeavor; I took her in my heart to grow

And till the hollow place forever.

Jean Ingelow.

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