GOOD NEWS.

A BEE flew in at my window,
And circled around my head;

He came like a herald of summertime.

And what do you think he said?

TROUBLE TO LEND.

TO-MORROW has trouble to lend
To all who lack to-day;

Go, borrow it, borrow, griefless heart,

And thou with thy peace wilt pay!

"As sure as the golden robin

Shall build her a swinging nest, And the captured sunbeam lie fastlocked

In the marigold's burning breast;

"As sure as the water-lilies Shall float like a fairy fleet;

An endless, endless store;

But I have as much as heart can

SWEETEST, Sweetest, Heliotrope!
In the sunset's dying splendor.
In the trance of twilight tender,
All my senses I surrender,

To the subtle spells that bind me:

rocks

With foamy, fantastic feet;

"As sure as the bobolink's carol And the plaint of the whippoorwill Shall gladden the morning, and sadden the night,

And the crickets pipe loud and shrill;

"So sure to the heart of the maiden Who hath loved and sorrowed long, Glad tidings shall bring the summer of joy

With bursting of blossom and song!"

A seer as well as a herald!

For while I sat weeping to-day, The tenderest, cheeriest letter came From Lionel far away.

Good news! O little bee-prophet,
Your words I will never forget!

It may be foolish,- that dear, old sign,

But Lionel's true to me yet!

With visions vague of soft delight; Shadowy hands with endless chain Of purple-clustered bloom enwind

Heliotrope! Heliotrope!

Give me back my strength's com-
pleteness.

Must I pine and languish ever!
Wilt thou loose my senses never!
Wilt thou bloom and bloom for ever,
Oh, Lethean Heliotrope ?

Ah, the night-wind, freshly blowing,
Sets the languid blood a-flowing!
I revive!-

I escape thy spells alive!

Flower! I love and do not love thee! Hold my breath, but bend above thee; Crush thy buds, yet bid them ope; Sweetest, sweetest Heliotrope!

DAY-DREAMING.

How better am I
Than a butterfly?

Here, as the noiseless hours go by,
Hour by hour,

I cling to my fancy's half-blown flower:

Over its sweetness I brood and brood, And scarcely stir, though sounds intrude

That would trouble and fret another mood

Less divine Than mine!

up, ragged and brown.

But men must work and women must

home,

And call the cattle home

And call the cattle home,

Across the sands of Dee!"

The western wind was wild and dank

with foam

And all alone went she.

The western tide crept up along the sand,

And o'er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand,

As far as eye could see.

be proud?

Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fastflying cloud,

A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,

He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

ing erased

Are the memories of mortals who loved her and praised.

The head of the king, that the sceptre hath borne;

The brow of the priest, that the mitre hath worn;

The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,

Are

hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap;

The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep; The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread,

Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

So the multitude goes, like the flower or weed,

That withers away to let others succeed;

So the multitude comes, even those we behold,

To repeat every tale that has often been told.