WHEN SHE COMES HOME.

WHEN she comes home again! A thousand ways
I fashion to myself, the tenderness

Of my glad welcome; I shall tremble—yes;
And touch her, as when first in the old days

I touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraise
Mine eyes, such was my faint heart's sweet distress.
Then silence: and the perfume of her dress;
The room will sway a little, and a haze
Cloy eyesight-soulsight, even-for a space;
And tears-yes; and the ache here in the throat,
To know that I so ill deserve the place
Her arms make for me; and the sobbing note
I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face

Again is hidden in the old embrace.

JAMES WHITCOMB Riley.

DRIFTING.

My soul to-day

Is far away,

Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;

My winged boat,

A bird afloat,

Swims round the purple peaks remote :

Round purple peaks

It sails, and seeks

Blue inlets, and their crystal creeks,

Where high rocks throw,
Through deeps below,

A duplicated golden glow.

Far, vague and dim,

The mountains swim; While on Vesuvius' misty brim, With outstretch'd hands,

The gray smoke stands O'erlooking the volcanic lands.

In lofty lines,

'Mid palms and pines, And olives, aloes, elms, and vines, Sorrento swings

On sunset wings,

Where Tasso's spirit soars and sings.

Here Ischia smiles

O'er liquid miles;

And yonder, bluest of the isles,

Calm Capri waits,

Her sapphire gates

Beguiling to her bright estates.

I heed not, if

My rippling skiff

Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff;

With dreamful eyes

My spirit lies

Under the walls of Paradise.

Under the walls

Where swells and falls

The Bay's deep breast at intervals,

The day, so mild,

Is Heaven's own child,

With Earth and Ocean reconciled;
The airs I feel

Around me steal

Are murmuring to the murmuring keel.

Over the rail

My hand I trail

Within the shadow of the sail,

A joy intense,

The cooling sense,

Glides down my drowsy indolence.

With dreamful eyes

My spirit lies

Where Summer sings and never dies,—

O'erveil'd with vines,

She glows and shines

Among her future oils and wines.

Her children, hid

The cliffs amid,

Are gambolling with the gambolling kid;

Or down the walls,

With tipsy calls,

Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls.

The fisher's child,

With tresses wild,

Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled,

With glowing lips

Sings as she skips,

Or gazes at the far-off ships.

Yon deep bark goes

Where Traffic blows,

From lands of sun to lands of snow ;

This happier one,

Its course is run

From lands of snow to lands of sun.

O happy ship,

To rise and dip,

With the blue crystal at your lip!

O happy crew,

My heart with you

Sails, and sails, and sings anew!

No more, no more

The worldly shore

Upbraids me with its loud uproar !

With dreamful eyes

My spirit lies

Under the wall of Paradise!

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

ELIZABETH.

ELIZABETH, alack, Elizabeth!

Your lovely lilies blow,

Slim, love, still, love, beside the echoing stair.
The bees have found them out. Row after

row

Your pinks, those little blossoms with a breath Blown from the east, and out the spice-trees there, Nod up the paths; and roses white as death, And roses red as love, grow everywhere: For June is at the door.

Alack, alack, alack, Elizabeth!

Sweeter than June, why do you come no more?

LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE.

ANNE.

HER eyes be like the violets,

Ablow in Sudbury lane;

When she does smile, her face is sweet
As blossoms after rain;

With grief I think of my gray hairs,
And wish me young again.

In comes she through the dark old door
Upon this Sabbath day ;

And she doth bring the tender wind

That sings in bush and spray,