JULIA C. R. DORR.

Born at Charleston, South Carolina, 1825

WHAT SHE THOUGHT.

MARION Show'd me her wedding gown
And her veil of gossamer lace to-night,
And the orange blooms that to-morrow morn
Shall fade in her soft hair's golden light.
But Philip came to the open door;

Like the heart of a wild rose glow'd her cheek, And they wander'd off through the garden paths, So blest that they did not care to speak.

I wonder how it seems to be loved;

To know you are fair in some one's eyes;
That upon some one your beauty dawns
Every day as a new surprise.

To know that whether you weep or smile,
Whether your mood be grave or gay,
Somebody thinks you all the while
Sweeter than any flower of May !

I wonder what it would be to love;
That, I think, would be sweeter far-
To know that one out of all the world
Was lord of your life, your king, your star!
They talk of love's sweet tumult and pain ;
I am not sure that I understand,

Though a thrill ran down to my finger-tips,
Once when somebody-touch'd my hand.

I wonder what it would be to dream

Of a child that might one day be your own, Of the hidden springs of your life a part, Flesh of your flesh, and bone of your bone. Marion stoop'd one day to kiss

A beggar's babe, with a tender grace, While some sweet thought, like a prophecy, Look'd from her pure Madonna face.

I wonder what it must be to think
To-morrow will be your wedding day,
And, in the radiant sunset glow,

Down fragrant flowery paths to stray,
As Marion does this blessed night

With Philip, lost in a blissful dream.
Can she feel his heart through the silence beat?
Does he see her eyes in the starlight gleam?

Questioning thus, my days go on,

But never an answer comes to me;
All love's mysteries, sweet as strange,
Seal'd away from my life must be.
Yet still I dream, O heart of mine!
Of a beautiful city that lies afar;
And there, sometime, I shall drop the mask,
And be shapely and fair as others are!

OUTGROWN.

NAY, you wrong her, my friend! she's not fickle; her love she has simply outgrown :

One can read the whole matter, translating her heart by the light of one's own.

Can you bear me to talk with you frankly? There is much that my heart would say ;

And you know we were children together, have quarrell'd and "made up" in play.

And so, for the sake of old friendship, I venture to tell you the truth,

As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier youth.

Five summers ago, when you woo'd her, you stood on the selfsame plane,

Face to face, heart to heart, never dreaming your souls could be parted again.

She loved you at that time entirely, in the bloom of her life's early May;

And it is not her fault, I repeat it, that she does not love you to-day.

Nature never stands still, nor souls either: they ever go up or go down;

And hers has been steadily soaring-but how has it been with your own?

She has struggled and yearn'd and aspired, grown purer and wiser each year:

The stars are not farther above you in yon luminous atmosphere!

For she whom you crown'd with fresh roses, down yonder, five summers ago,

Has learn'd that the first of our duties to God and ourselves is to grow.

Her eyes they are sweeter and calmer; but their vision is clearer as well:

Her voice has a tenderer cadence, but is pure as a silver bell.

Her face has the look worn by those who with God and his angels have talk'd :

The white robes she wears are less white than the spirits with whom she has walk'd.

And you? Have you aim'd at the highest? Have you, too, aspired and pray'd?

Have you look'd upon evil unsullied? Have you conquer'd it undismay'd?

Have you, too, grown purer and wiser, as the months and the years have roll'd on?

Did you meet her this morning rejoicing in the triumph of victory won?

Nay, hear me! The truth cannot harm you. day in her presence you stood,

When to

Was the hand that you gave her as white and clean as that of her womanhood?

Go, measure yourself by her standard; look back on the years that have fled!

Then ask, if you need, why she tells you that the love of her girlhood is dead.

She cannot look down to her lover: her love like her soul, aspires;

He must stand by her side, or above her, who would kindle its holy fires.

Now farewell! For the sake of old friendship I have ventured to tell you the truth,

As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier youth.

LUCY LARCOM.

Born in Massachusetts 1826

A LOYAL WOMAN'S NO.

No! is my answer from this cold, bleak ridge,
Down to your valley; you may rest you there :
The gulf is wide, and none can build a bridge
That your gross weight would safely hither bear.
Pity me, if you will! I look at you

With something that is kinder far than scorn,
And think "Ah, well! I might have grovel'd, too;
I might have walk'd there, fetter'd and forsworn."

I am of nature weak as others are ;

I might have chosen comfortable ways;
Once from these heights I shrank, beheld afar,
In the soft lap of quiet easy days.

I might,—I will not hide it,—once I might

Have lost, in the warm whirlpools of your voice,

The sense of Evil, the stern cry of Right;
But Truth has steer'd me free, and I rejoice.

Not with the triumph that looks back to jeer
At the poor herd that call their misery bliss;
But as a mortal speaks when God is near,
I drop you down my answer: it is this:-

I am not yours, because you prize in me
What is the lowest in my own esteem:
Only my flowery levels can you see,

Nor of my heaven-smit summits do you dream.
I am not yours, because you love yourself:
Your heart has scarcely room for me beside.
I will not be shut in with name and pelf;
I spurn the shelter of your narrow pride!

Not yours, because you are not man enough
To grasp your country's measure of a man.
If such as you, when Freedom's ways are rough,
Cannot walk in them, learn that women can!
Not yours, because, in this the nation's need,
You stoop to bend her losses to your gain,
And do not feel the meanness of your deed;-

I touch no palm defiled with such a stain!
Whether man's thought can find too lofty steeps
For woman's scaling, care not I to know:
But when he falters by her side, or creeps,
She must not clog her soul with him to go.

Who weds me must at least with equal pace Sometimes move with me at my being's height: To follow him to his superior place,

His rarer atmosphere, were keen delight.

You lure me to the valley: men should call
Up to the mountains, where the air is clear.
Win me and help me climbing, if at all!

Beyond these peaks great harmonies I hear :