Then, with her eyes of splendour,
She gave a look so tender,
I knew she would surrender!

So down the lane I led her,
And while her cheek grew redder,
I sued outright to wed her.

Good end from bad beginning!
My wooing came to winning!
And still I watch her spinning!

SIR MARMADUKE'S MUSINGS.

I WON a noble fame;

But, with a sudden frown,
The people snatch'd my crown,
And in the mire trod down

My lofty name.

I bore a bounteous purse,
And beggars by the way
Then bless'd me day by day;
But I, grown poor as they,
Have now their curse.

I gain'd what men call friends;

But now their love is hate,
And I have learn'd too late
How mated minds unmate,
And friendship ends.

I clasp'd a woman's breast,
As if her heart I knew,

HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.

Born at Calais, Maine, 1835

MAGDALEN.

If any woman of us all,

If any woman of the street, Before the Lord should pause

and fall,

And with her long hair wipe His feet,

He whom with yearning hearts we love,
And fain would see with human eyes
Around our living pathway move,
And underneath our daily skies,—

The Maker of the heavens and earth,
The Lord of life, the Lord of death,
With whom the universe had birth-

But breathing of our breath one breath,—

If any woman of the street

Should kneel and with the lifted mesh Of her long tresses wipe His feet,

And with her kisses kiss their flesh,—

How round that woman would we throng,
How willingly would clasp her hands
Fresh from that touch divine, and long
To gather up the twice-blest strands!

How eagerly with her would change
Our idle innocence, nor heed
Her shameful memories and strange,
Could we but also claim that deed.

THE NIGHT-SEA.

IN the summer even,

While yet the dew was hoar,
I went plucking purple pansies,
Till my love should come to shore.

The fishing lights their dances

Were keeping out at sea,

And "Come!" I sang-" my true love!
Come hasten home to me!"

But the sea it fell a-moaning,

And the white gulls rock'd thereon,
And the young moon dropp'd from heaven,

And the lights hid one by one.

All silently their glances

Slipp'd down the cruel sea,

66

And Wait!" cried the night, and wind, and

storm,

"Wait till I come to thee!

A SIGH.

It was nothing but a rose I gave her,

Nothing but a rose

Any wind might rob of half its savour—
Any wind that blows.

When she took it from my trembling fingers With a hand as chill,

Ah! the flying touch upon them lingers,
Stays, and thrills them still!

Wither'd, faded, press'd between the pages,
Crumpled fold on fold,—

Once it lay upon her breast, and ages
Can not make it old.

CELIA LEIGHTON THAXTER.

Born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, 1835

THE MINUTE-GUNS.

I STOOD within the little cove,

Full of the morning's life and hope, While heavily the eager waves

Charged thunderingly up the rocky slope.

The splendid breakers! How they rush'd, All emerald green and flashing white, Tumultuous in the morning sun,

With cheer and sparkle and delight.

And freshly blew the fragrant wind,
The wild seawind across their tops,
And caught the spray and flung it far

In sweeping showers of glittering drops.

Within the cove all flash'd and foam'd
With many a fleeting rainbow hue;
Without, gleam'd bright against the sky
A tender wavering line of blue,

Where toss'd the distant waves, and far
Shone, silver white, a quiet sail;
And overhead the soaring gulls

With graceful pinions stemm'd the gale.

And all my pulses thrill'd with joy,
Watching the winds' and waters' strife,
With sudden rapture, and I cried—
"O, sweet is life! Thank God for life!"

Sail'd any cloud across the sky,
Marring this glory of the sun's ?—
Over the sea, from distant forts,

There came the boom of minute-guns!

War tidings! Many a brave soul fled,
And many a heart the message stuns !-
I saw no more the joyous waves;

I only heard the minute-guns.

MEDRAKE AND OSPREY.

MEDRAKE, waving wide wings low over the breeze-rippled bight!

Osprey, soaring superb overhead in the fathomless blue, Graceful, and fearless, and strong! do you thrill with the morning's delight

Even as I? Brings the sunshine a message of beauty for you?

O the blithe breeze of the west, blowing sweet from the far away land,

Bowing the grass heavy-headed, thick-crowding, so slender and proud!