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II.

ROSE.

My ever-lightsome, ever-laughing Rose,
Who alway speakest first and thinkest last,
Thy full voice is as clear as bugle-blast ;

Right from the ear down to the heart it goes
And "I'm beautiful! as who but knows?"

says,

Thy name reminds me of old romping days,
Of kisses stolen in dark passage-ways,

Or in the parlour, if the mother-nose

Gave sign of drowsy watch. I wonder where
Are gone thy tokens, given with a glance
So full of everlasting love till morrow,

Or a day's endless grieving for the dance
Last night denied, backed with a lock of hair
That spake of broken hearts and deadly sorrow.

III.

MARY.

DARK hair, dark eyes, not too dark to be deep
And full of feeling, yet enough to glow

With fire when angered; feelings never slow,
But which seem rather watching to forthleap
From her full breast; a gently-flowing sweep
Of words in common talk, a torrent-rush,
Whenever through her soul swift feelings gush;
A heart less ready to be gay than weep,
Yet cheerful ever; a calm matron-smile,
That bids God bless you! a chaste simpleness,
With somewhat, too, of" proper pride," in dress ;-
This portrait to my mind's eye came, the while
I thought of thee, the well-grown woman Mary,
Whilome a gold-haired, laughing little fairy.

IV.

CAROLINE.

A STAIDNESS Sobers o'er her pretty face,
Which something but ill-hidden in her eyes,
And a quaint look about her lips denies ;

A lingering love of girlhood you can trace
In her checked laugh and half-restrainèd pace;
And, when she bears herself most womanly,

It seems as if a watchful mother's

eye

Kept down with sobering glance her childish grace:
Yet oftentimes her nature gushes free
As water long held back by little hands,
Within a pump, and let forth suddenly,

Until, her task remembering, she stands
A moment silent, smiling doubtfully,

Then laughs aloud and scorns her hated bands.

V.

ANNE.

THERE is a pensiveness in quiet Anne,

A mournful drooping of the full, gray eye,
As if she had shook hands with Misery,

And known some care since her short life began ;
Her cheek is seriously pale, nigh wan,

And, though of cheerfulness there is no lack,

You feel as if she must be dressed in black;

Yet is she not of those who, all they can,
Strive to be gay, and, striving, seem most sad,—
Her's is not grief, but silent soberness;

You would be startled if you saw her glad,

And startled if you saw her weep, no less;

She walks through life, as, on the Sabbath day, She decorously glides to church to pray.

"GOE, LITTLE BOOKE! "

Go, little book! the world is wide, There's room and verge enough for thee; For thou hast learned that only pride

Lacketh fit opportunity,

Which comes unbid to modesty.

Go! win thy way with gentleness:
I send thee forth, my first-born child,
Quite, quite alone, to face the stress
of fickle skies and pathways wild,
Where few can keep them undefiled.
Thou camest from a poet's heart,
A warm, still home, and full of rest;
Far from the pleasant eyes thou art
Of those who know and love thee best,

And by whose hearthstones thou wert blest.

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