And one warm gust, full-fed with perfume, blew

Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool. The garden stretches southward. In the midst

A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade.

The garden-glasses shone, and momently

The twinkling laurel scatter'd silver lights.

"Eustace," I said, "this wonder keeps the house."

He nodded, but a moment afterwards He cried, "Look! look!" Before he ceased I turn'd,

And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there.

For up the porch there grew an Eastern

rose,

ing

and still went

Lovingly lower, trembled on her waistAh, happy shade wavering down, But, ere it touch'd a foot, that might have danced

The greensward into greener circles, dipt,

And mix'd with shadows of the common ground!

But the full day dwelt on her brows, and sunn'd

Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe bloom, And doubled his own warmth against her lips,

And on the bounteous wave of such a breast

As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade,

She stood, a sight to make an old man young.

So rapt, we near'd the house; but she, a Rose

In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil, Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance turn'd

Into the world without; till close at hand,

And almost ere I knew mine own intent,

This murmur broke the stillness of that air

Which brooded round about her:

"Ah, one rose, One rose, but one, by those fair fingers cull'd,

་་

me.

"Now," ," said he, "will you climb the top of Art.

You cannot fail but work in hues to dim

The Titianic Flora. Will you match My Juliet? you, not you,-the Master, Love,

A more ideal Artist he than all." So home I went, but could not sleep for joy,

Reading her perfect features in the gloom,

Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and o'er,

And shaping faithful record of the glance

That graced the giving-such a noise of life

Swarm'd in the golden present, such a voice

Call'd to me from the years to come, and such

A length of bright horizon rimm'd the dark.

And all that night I heard the watchman peal

The sliding season: all that night I heard

The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy hours.

The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good,

O'er the mute city stole with folded wings,

Distilling odors on me as they went To greet their fairer sisters of the East.

Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all,

learn at full

Would you

How passion rose thro' circumstantial grades

Beyond all grades develop'd? and indeed

I had not stayed so long to tell you all, But while I mused came Memory with sad eyes,

Holding the folded annals of my youth; And while I mused, Love with knit brows went by,

And with a flying finger swept my lips, And spake, "Be wise: not easily forgiven

Are those, who, setting wide the doors that bar

The secret bridal chambers of the heart,

Let in the day." Here, then, my words have end.

Yet might I tell of meetings, of farewells

Of that which came between, more sweet than each,

In whispers, like the whispers of the leaves

That tremble round a nightingale-in sighs

Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for utter

WITH farmer Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son,

And she his niece. He often look'd at them,

And often thought, "I'll make them man and wife."

Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, because

He had been always with her in the house,

Thought not of Dora.

Then there came a day When Allan call'd his son, and said, "My son:

I married late, but I would wish to see My grandchild on my knees before I

die :

And I have set my heart upon a match. Now therefore look to Dora: she is well

To look to thrifty too beyond her age.

She is my brother's daughter: he and I Had once hard words, and parted, and he died

In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred

His daughter Dora: take her for your wife;

For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day,

For many years." But William answer'd short:

"I cannot marry Dora; by my life, I will not marry Dora." Then the old

man

Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said:

"You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!

But in my time a father's word was law,

His niece and said: "My girl, I love you well;

But if you speak with him that was my son,

Or change a word with her he calls his wife,

My home is none of yours. My will is law."

And Dora promised, being meek. She thought,

"It cannot be my uncle's mind will change!"

And days went on, and there was born a boy

To William; then distresses came on him

And day by day he pass'd his father's gate,

Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not.

But Dora stored what little she could save,

And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know

Who sent it; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest time he died.

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought

Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said:

"I have obey'd my uncle until now, And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro

men

Dare tell him Dora waited with the child;

And Dora would have risen and gone to him,

But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd,

And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

But when the morrow cane she rose and took

The child once more, and sat upon the mound;

And made a little wreath of all the flowers

That grew about, and tied it round his hat

To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye.

Then when the farmer pass'd into the field

He spied her, and he left his men at work,

And came and said: "Where were you yesterday?

Whose child is that? What are you doing here?"

So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answer'd softly, "This is William's child!"

"And did I not," said Allan, "did I

not

At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands,

And the boy's cry came to her from the field,

More and more distant. She bow'd down her head,

Remembering the day when first she came,

And all the things that had been. She bow'd down

And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd,

And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood

Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise

To God, that help'd her in her widowhood.

And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy;

But, Mary, let me live and work with

you:

He says that he will never see me more."

Then answer'd Mary, "This shall never be,

That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself:

And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,

For he will teach him hardness, and to slight

His mother; therefore thou and I will go,

And I will have my boy, and bring him home;

And I will beg of him to take thee back:

But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one

house,

And work for William's child, until he grows age to help us."

Of

So the women kiss'd Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm.

The door was off the latch: they peep'd, and saw

The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees,

Who thrust him in the hollows of his

you

Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight

His father's memory; and take Dora back,

And let all this be as it was before."

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face

By Mary. There was silence in the room;

And all at once the old man burst in sobs:

"I have been to blame-to blame. I have kill'd my son.

I have kill'd him- but I loved himmy dear son.

May God forgive me! - I have been to blame.

Kiss me, my children."

Then they clung about The old man's neck, and kiss d him many times.

And all the man was broken with re

And cross'd the garden to the gardener's lodge,

With all its casements bedded, and its

walls

And chimneys muffled in the leafy vine.

There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid

A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound,

Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt; of home,

And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly made,

Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay,

Like fossils of the rock, with golden yoiks

Imbedded and injellied; last, with these,

A flask of cider from his father's vats, Prime, which I knew; and so we sat and eat

And talk'd old matters over; who was dead,

Who married, who was like to be, and how

The races went, and who would rent the hall :

Then touch'd upon the game, how scarce it was

This season glancing thence, discuss'd the farm,

The fourfield system, and the price of grain;

And struck upon the corn-laws, where we split,

And came again together on the king With heated faces; till he laugh'd aloud;

And, while the blackbird on the pippin hung

To hear him, clapt his hand in mine and sang

"Oh! who would fight and march and countermarch,

Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field, And shovell'd up into a bloody trench