And still the gathering larger grew,
And gave its pence and crowded nigher,
While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew
His pipe, and struck the gamut higher.

O heart of Nature, beating still

With throbs her vernal passion taught her,Even here, as on the vine-clad hill,

Or by the Arethusan water!

New forms may fold the speech, new lands
Arise within these ocean-portals,
But Music waves eternal wands,—
Enchantress of the souls of mortals!

So thought I;-but among us trod
A man in blue, with legal baton,
And scoff'd the vagrant demigod,
And push'd him from the step I sat on.
Doubting I mused upon the cry-

"Great Pan is dead!"—and all the people Went on their ways:—and clear and high The quarter sounded from the steeple.

TOUJOURS AMOUR.

PRITHEE tell me, Dimple-Chin!
At what age does Love begin?
Your blue eyes have scarcely seen
Summers three, my fairy queen!
But a miracle of sweets,
Soft approaches, sly retreats,
Show the little archer there,
Hidden in your pretty hair;

When didst learn a heart to win?
Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin!

"Oh!" the rosy lips reply,
"I can't tell you if I try.
'Tis so long I can't remember:
Ask some younger lass than I!”

Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face!
Do heart and head keep pace?
your
When does hoary Love expire,

When do frosts put out the fire?
Can its embers burn below
All that chill December snow?
Care still soft hands to press,
you
Bonny heads to smooth and bless?
When does Love give up the chase?
Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face!

"Ah!" the wise old lips reply,"Youth may pass and strength may die; But of Love I can't foretoken: Ask some older sage than I!"

THE DOORSTEP.

THE Conference-meeting through at last,
We boys around the vestry waited
To see the girls come tripping past,
Like snow-
v-birds willing to be mated.

Not braver he that leaps the wall
By level musket-flashes bitten,
Than I, who stepp'd before them all
Who long'd to see me get the mitten.

But no! she blush'd and took my arm:
We let the old folks have the highway,
And started toward the Maple Farm
Along a kind of lovers' by-way.

I can't remember what we said,

'Twas nothing worth a song or story; Yet that rude path by which we sped Seem'd all transform'd and in a glory.

The snow was crisp beneath our feet,

The moon was full, the fields were gleaming; By hood and tippet shelter'd sweet,

Her face with youth and health was beaming.

The little hand outside her muff,

O sculptor! if you could but mould it !— So lightly touch'd my jacket-cuff,

To keep it warm I had to hold it.

To have her with me there alone,—
'Twas love and fear and triumph blended.
At last we reach'd the foot-worn stone
Where that delicious journey ended.

The old folks, too, were almost home:
Her dimpled hand the latches finger'd,
We heard the voices nearer come,

Yet on the doorstep still we linger❜d.

She shook her ringlets from her hood,

And with a "Thank you, Ned!" dissembled, But yet I knew she understood

With what a daring wish I trembled.

A cloud pass'd kindly overhead,

The moon was slyly peeping through it, Yet hid its face, as if it said,

66

Come, now or never! do it! do it!"

My lips till then had only known

The kiss of mother and of sister,
But somehow, full upon her own
Sweet rosy darling mouth-I kiss'd her!

Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still,
O listless woman! weary lover!

To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill,
I'd give but who can live youth over?

HELEN FISKE JACKSON.*

Born at Amherst, Mass: 1833-5.

CORONATION.

Ar the king's gate the subtle noon
Wove filmy yellow nets of sun;
Into the drowsy snare too soon
The guards fell, one by one.

Through the king's gate, unquestion'd then,
A beggar went, and laugh'd-" This brings
"Me chance, at last, to see if men
"Fare better, being kings!

The king sate bow'd beneath his crown,
Propping his face with listless hand;
Watching the hour-glass sifting down
Too slow its shining sand.

"Poor man! what wouldst thou have of me?" The beggar turn'd, and, pitying, Replied, like one in a dream-" Of thee "Nothing: I want the king!"

Uprose the king, and from his head

Shook off the crown, and threw it by: "O man! thou must have known "-he said— "A greater king than I!"

Through all the gates, unquestion'd then,
Went king and beggar, hand in hand.
Whisper'd the king--"Shall I know when
"Before his throne I stand?"

The beggar laugh'd. Free winds in haste
Were wiping from the king's hot brow
The crimson lines the crown had traced :-
"This is his presence now!"

*See Note 25.

At the king's gate the crafty noon
Unwove its yellow nets of sun;
Out of their sleep in terror soon

The guards wak'd, one by one.

"Ho here! ho there! Has no man seen
"The king?" The cry ran to and fro;
Beggar and king, they laugh'd, I ween,
The laugh that free men know.

On the king's gate the moss grew gray;
The king came not. They call'd him dead;
And made his eldest son one day

Slave in his father's stead.

SPINNING.

LIKE a blind spinner in the sun,
I tread my days;

I know that all the threads will run
Appointed ways;

I know each day will bring its task,
And, being blind, no more I ask.

I do not know the use or name
Of that I spin ;

I only know that some one came,
And laid within

My hand the thread, and said—" Since you "Are blind, but one thing you can do."

Sometimes the threads so rough and fast
And tangled fly,

I know wild storms are sweeping past,
And fear that I

Shall fall; but dare not try to find
A safer place, since I am blind.