And the lute he plays upon Shall strike ladies into trouble, As his sword strikes men to death. And the steed it shall be shod All in silver, housed in azure, And the mane shall swim the wind; He will kiss me on the mouth Then, and lead me as a lover, Through the crowds that praise his deeds; And, when soul-tied by one troth, Unto him I will discover That swan's nest among the reeds." Little Ellie, with her smile Not yet ended, rose up gaily,— Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe, Just to see, as she did daily, What more eggs were with the two. Pushing through the elm-tree copse, Winding by the stream, light-hearted, Where the osier pathway leads— Past the boughs she stoops and stops: Lo! the wild swan had deserted, And a rat had gnawed the reeds. Ellie went home sad and slow. If she found the lover ever, With his red-roan steed of steeds, The Chosen Tree. Sooth I know not! but I know E. B. BROWNING. 93 THE CHOSEN TREE. BIRD built her nest on a fair young tree, She lined it with feathers and made it so soft, As only a mother could. Primroses grew in the long green grass At the foot of the chosen tree; And the scent of sweet violets filled the air, There the daisy, that modest simple flower, The cowslip sweet, and the wind-flower light And the dragon-fly, and the painted moth, And the grasshopper came with its chirping voice, Not long ere three tiny heads were seen She loved them as only a mother loves, And she sang them her songs of glee; There were no little birds more happy than they, In their nest on the chosen tree. But one of this little family, Grew tired of his mother's care, He sat all day in sullen mood And nought to him looked fair. For the heart of this little bird was changed, Ah me! there is not a brighter home But he fled away, and he sported awhile And when night came on he was weary and cold, Ah, then he thought of his mother's wing, Then he lifted his voice, but none to hear, So he covered his head with his half-fledged wing, The Chosen Tree. Oh! never more in that beautiful wood And for many a day no song of joy Came up from his mother's breast; 95 And thus my young friends from this you may learn How even one child may be The cause of sorrow which nought may remove You each have a home in a chosen tree, But seek for that wisdom which comes from on high, And that truth which shall never decay : That heaven-born peace which the world cannot give, Nor the world in its pride take away. And your heavenly Father, who dwelleth above, He will send down the light of celestial love To your home in the chosen tree. JERRAM THE PRIEST AND THE MULBERBY TREE. ID you hear of the curate who mounted his mare, Of creature more tractable none ever heard, As near to the gates of the city he rode, The curate was hungry, and thirsty to boot; He shrunk from the thorns, though he longed for the fruit; With a word he arrested his courser's keen speed, And he stood up erect on the back of his steed; On the saddle he stood while the creature stood still, "Sure never," he thought, "" was a creature so rare, So docile, so true, as my excellent mare; Lo, here now I stand,” and he gazed all around, He stood with his head in the mulberry-tree, |