Now time turns him backward,—

Indeed this is true,

I'm just a year younger
Since I've known-you!

CHARLES HENRY WEBB.

"To Lulu: On One of My Birthdays."

LYDIA.

BREAK forth, break forth, O Sudbury town, And bid your yards be gay

Up all your gusty streets and down,

For Lydia comes to-day!

I hear it on the wharves below;
And if I buy or sell,

The good folk as they churchward go
Have only this to tell.

My mother, just for love of her,
Unlocks her carvèd drawers;
And sprigs of withered lavender
Drop down upon the floors.

For Lydia's bed must have the sheet
Spun out of linen sheer,

And Lydia's room be passing sweet
odors of last year.

The violet flags are out once more
In lanes salt with the sea;

The thorn-bush at Saint Martin's door
Grows white for such as she.

So, Sudbury, bid your gardens blow,
For Lydia comes to-day;

Of all the words that I do know

I have but this to say.

LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE.

LYNETTE.

A DAMSEL of high lineage, and a brow

May-blossom, and a cheek of apple-blos

som,

Hawk-eyes; and lightly was her slender nose Tip-tilted like the petal of a flower.

ALFRED (LORD) TENNYSON.

From "Gareth and Lynette."

MABEL.

AIR Mabel bids me sing to-night!

FAIR

Should Mabel plead in vain ?

Dear Muse, when lovely lips invite,

Ah! sweet should be the strain ;

So lend my lyre a blyther lay,
Whose winsome glee shall flow
As lightly as the winds at play,
Where summer roses blow.

Fair Mabel bids me sing to-night!
In days of old romance,

The minstrel sang for Beauty bright,
The gallant broke a lance;
And both in homage proudly knelt
To loveliness and grace-

Ah, luckless age! it never felt
The charm of Mabel's face!

Fair Mabel bids me sing to-night!
Her voice is low and pure;

Oh, who can hear that voice aright,
And yield not to its lure?

Or who can meet those peerless eyes
That dim the vestal's flame,
And never feel a yearning rise
To win a poet's name?

Fair Mabel bids me sing to-night!
Ah, could my numbers chime
With Herrick's grace, or vie in flight
With Waller's courtly rhyme;
Oh, I would voice a strain to match
Her every lissome wile;

And centuries to come should catch
The splendors of her smile.

Fair Mabel bids me sing to night;-
Alas! she pleads in vain!

The muse hath winged a silent flight
Beyond the silver main.

A song for Mabel were too sweet
For mortal ears to know;

I only catch its rhythmic beat
When Dreamland zephyrs blow.

SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.

MABEL.

the woods young Mabel stands

Loitering by an opening;

Ferns and flowers are in her hands

Just this morning's blossoming;

Blue sky to the fir-tops bends,

To see fair Mabel loitering.

The heavens, methinks, are glad to see
Grace and beauty such as hers;
Methinks the pines would neighbors be

-

Long time and larch and sombre firs ;—

For such a bit of jollity

Is not in all the universe.

They are sad, and sigh, and moan-
Never laugh, a pleasant laugh;
But she is glad, as if alone

Of all Earth's gladness she were half.
Hear their pining monotone

Stilled to make way for her laugh!

"Ha! ha! ha!"-a liquid note, Like a brook within a dell, Or a wood-thrush in his grot,

Singing-just where, none can tell ;

See her pretty, pearly throat,

With her bosom fall and swell!

JAMES HERBERT MORSE.

A

MADELINE.

CASEMENT high and triple-arched there

was,

All garlanded with carven imageries

Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knotgrass,

And diamonded with panes of quaint device,
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
As are the tiger-moth's deep damasked wings;
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,