shine,

Far down in the green and glassy The floor is of sand, like the moun

sail,

And round his breast the ripples break,

As down he bears before the gale.
The dipping paddle echoes far,
On thy fair bosom, waveless stream!
And flashes in the moonlight gleam,
And bright reflects the polar star.

The waves along thy pebbly shore, As blows the north-wind, heave their foam,

And curl around the dashing oar; As late the boatman hies him home.

How sweet, at set of sun, to view Thy golden mirror spreading wide, And see the mist of mantling blue Float round the distant mountain's side.

At midnight hour, as shines the moon,

A sheet of silver spreads below,
And swift she cuts, at highest noon,
Light clouds, like wreaths of purest

snow.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake!
Oh! I could ever sweep the oar,
When early birds at morning wake,
And evening tells us, toil is o'er.

Robes of satin and Brussels lace, Knots of flowers and ribbons too, Scattered about in every place.

For the revel is through.

And Maud and Madge in robes of white,

The prettiest nightgowns under the sun, Stockingless, slipperless, sit in the night,

For the revel is done.

Sit and comb their beautiful hair, Those wonderful waves of brown and gold,

Till the fire is out in the chamber there,

And the little bare feet are cold.

Then, out of the gathering winter chill,

All out of the bitter St. Agnes weather,

While the fire is out and the house is still,

Maud and Madge together,

Maud and Madge in robes of white, The prettiest nightgowns under the

sun,

Curtained away from the chilly night, After the revel is done!

Float along in a splendid dream,

To a golden gittern's tinkling tune,

While a thousand lustres shimmering stream,

In a palace's grand saloon. Flashing of jewels and flutter of laces,

Tropical odors sweeter than musk; Men and women with beautiful faces And eyes of tropical dusk,

And one face shining out like a star, One face haunting the dreams of

each, And one voice sweeter than others

are,

Telling, through lips of bearded bloom,

An old, old story over again,
As down the royal bannered room,

To the golden gittern's strain,

Two and two, they dreamily walk, While an unseen spirit walks beside,

And, all unheard in the lovers' talk, He claimeth one for a bride.

O Maud and Madge, dream on together,

With never a pang of jealous fear! For, ere the bitter St. Agnes weather Shall whiten another year,

Robed for the bridal, and robed for the tomb,

Braided brown hair and golden tress,

There'll be only one of you left for the bloom

Of the bearded lips to press,

Only one for the bridal pearls,

The robe of satin and Brussels lace, Only one to blush through her curls At the sight of a lover's face. O beautiful Madge, in your bridal white,

For you the revel has just begun:

to-night

The revel of life is done!

But, robed and crowned with your saintly bliss,

Queen of heaven and bride of the sun,

O beautiful Maud, you'll never miss The kisses another hath won!

86

IN AN HOUR.

I.

ANTICIPATION.

'I'LL take the orchard path," she said,

Speaking lowly, smiling slowly: The brook was dried within its bed, The hot sun flung a flame of red Low in the west as forth she sped.

Across the dried brook-course she went,

Singing lowly, smiling slowly; She scarcely felt the sun that spent Its fiery force in swift descent, She never saw the wheat was bent,

The grasses parched, the blossoms dried;

Singing lowly, smiling slowly, Her eyes amidst the drouth espied A summer pleasance far and wide, With roses and sweet violets pied.

II.

DISAPPOINTMENT.

But homeward coming all the way,
Sighing lowly, pacing slowly.
She knew the bent wheat withering
lay,

She saw the blossoms' dry decay,
She missed the little brooklet's play.

A breeze had sprung from out the south,

But, sighing lowly, pacing slowly, She only felt the burning drouth; Her eyes were hot and parched her mouth,

Yet sweet the wind blew from the south.

rain,

Still sighing lowly, pacing slowly, She never saw the lifting grain, But only - - a lone orchard lane, Where she had waited all in vain.

TYING HER BONNET UNDER HER CHIN.

TYING her bonnet under her chin,
She tied her raven ringlets in;
But not alone in the silken snare
Did she catch her lovely floating hair,
For, tying her bonnet under her chin,
She tied a young man's heart within.

They were strolling together up the hill,

Where the wind comes blowing merry and chill;

And it blew the curls a frolicsome

race,

All over her happy peach-colored face,

Till, scolding and laughing, she tied them in,

Under her beautiful dimpled chin.

And it blew a color, bright as the bloom

Of the pinkest fuchsia's tossing plume,

All over the cheeks of the prettiest girl

That ever imprisoned a romping curl,
Or, tying her bonnet under her chin,
Tied a young man's heart within.

Steeper and steeper grew the hill;
Madder, merrier, chillier still
The western wind blew down, and
played

The wildest tricks with the little maid,

As, tying her bonnet under her chin, She tied a young man's heart within.

To gladly, gleefully do your best To blow her against the young man's breast,

Where he as gladly folded her in, And kissed her mouth and her dimpled chin?

Ah! Ellery Vane, you little thought, An hour ago, when you besought This country lass to walk with you, After the sun had dried the dew, What perilous danger you'd be in, As she tied her bonnet under her chin!

SOME DAY OF DAYS.

SOME day; some day of days, thread-
ing the street
With idle, heedless pace,
Unlooking for such grace,
I shall behold your face!

Some day, some day of days, thus may we meet.

Or winter's icy chill

Touch whitely vale and hill. What matter? I shall thrill Through every vein with summer on that day.

Once more life's perfect youth will all come back,

And for a moment there I shall stand fresh and fair, And drop the garment care; Once more my perfect youth will nothing lack.

I shut my eyes now, thinking how 't will be,

How face to face each soul
Will slip its long control,
Forget the dismal dole

Of dreary Fate's dark separating sea;

And glance to glance, and hand to hand in greeting,

The past with all its fears,
Its silences and tears,
Its lonely, yearning years,

skies of May,

meeting.

There is no sadness in the world,
No other like it here or there,
The sadness of deserted homes
In nests, or hearts, or anywhere.

A LETTER.

Two things love can do,
Only two:

Can distrust, or can believe;
It can die, or it can live,
There is no syncope
Possible to love or me,
Go your ways!

Two things you can do,
Only two:

Be the thing you used to be,
Or be nothing more to me.
I can but joy or grieve,
Can no more than die or live.
Go your ways!

So far I wrote, my darling, drearily, But now my sad pen falls down wear ily

From out my trembling hand.