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THE FIRST TRYST.

SHE pulls a rose from her rose-tree,
Kissing its soul to him,-
Far over years, far over dreams
And tides of chances dim.

He plucks from his heart a poem ;
A flower-sweet messenger,-
Far over years, far over dreams,
Flutters its soul to her.

These are the world-old lovers,
Clasp'd in one twilight's gleam:
Yet he is but a dream to her,
And she a poet's dream.

THEODORE TILTON.

Born in New York City 1835—

NO AND YES.

I WATCH'D her at her spinning,
And this was my beginning
Of wooing and of winning.

So cruel, so uncaring,
So scornful was her bearing,
She set me half despairing.

Yet sorry wit one uses,

Who loves, and thinks he loses
Because a maid refuses.

Love prospers in the making
By help of all its aching

And quaking and heart-breaking.

A woman's first denying
Betokens her complying
Upon a second trying.

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When first I said in pleading-
'Behold, my love lies bleeding!'
She shook her head unheeding.

But when again I told her,
And blamed her growing colder,
She dropp'd against my shoulder.

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,

Or fancied would be true;
Who proved, alas! she too,
False like the rest.

I am now all bereft,

As when some tower doth fall,
With battlements and wall,
And gate and bridge and all,—
And nothing left.

But I account it worth

All pangs of fair hopes cross'd-
All loves and honours lost-
To gain the heavens at cost
Of losing earth.

So, lest I be inclined

To render ill for ill-
Henceforth in me instill,

O God! a sweet good will
To all mankind.

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,

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.

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