I

& Sigh.

T was nothing but a rose I gave her, –
Nothing but a rose

Any wind might rob of half its savor,
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!

Withered, faded, pressed between the pages, Crumpled fold on fold,

Once it lay upon her breast, and ages

Cannot make it old!

H. P. SPOFFORD.

NO MORE.

No More.

THIS is the Burden of the Heart,
The Burden that it always bore:

We live to love; we meet to part;
And part to meet on earth No More:
We clasp each other to the heart,

And part to meet on earth No More.

There is a time for tears to start,

For dews to fall and larks to soar : The Time for Tears, is when we part To meet upon the earth No More: The Time for Tears, is when we part

To meet on this wide earth - No More.

B. F. WILLSON.

The Port of Ships."

BEHIND him lay the gray Azores,

Behind the Gates of Hercules;

Before him not the ghost of shores,
Before him only shoreless seas.

The good mate said: "Now must we pray,
For lo! the very stars are gone.

Brave Adm'ral speak, — what shall I say?"
"Why, say, 'Sail on! Sail on! and on!""

"My men grow mutinous day by day;

My men grow ghastly, wan and weak."
The stout mate thought of home; a spray
Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.
"What shall I say, brave Adm'ral, say,
If we sight naught but seas at dawn?"
Why, you shall say, at break of day,

'Sail on! Sail on! Sail on! and on!""

They sailed, and sailed, as winds might blow,
Until at last the blanched mate said:

to a Young Girl Dying.

WITH A GIFT OF FRESH PALM-LEAVES.

HIS is Palm Sunday: mindful of the day,

THIS

I bring palm branches, found upon my way: But these will wither; thine shall never die, The sacred palms thou bearest to the sky! Dear little saint, though but a child in years, Older in wisdom than my gray compeers!

We doubt and tremble, we, with bated breath,
Talk of this mystery of life and death:
Thou, strong in faith, art gifted to conceive
Beyond thy years, and teach us to believe!

Then take my palms, triumphal, to thy home,
Gentle white palmer, never more to roam!
Only, sweet sister, give me, ere thou go'st,
Thy benediction, for my love thou know'st !
We, too, are pilgrims, travelling towards the shrine:
Pray that our pilgrimage may end like thine!

T. W. PARSONS.