"DO YOU REMEMBER HOW WE

USED TO PACE."

O you remember how we used to pace

Under the lindens, by the garden wall? It was a homely, but secluded place,

Safe sheltered from the prying gaze of all. Deep in the azure distance loomed the tall, Grand, heathery hills, and one bluff-headland high

Rose, rain-crowned, against the golden sky;
How lovingly around you seemed to fall
Those linden shadows, when you laid aside
Your hat, in the hot noon, and let the air
Kiss cheek and forehead, while I fetched
you rare

Red-coated peaches, or the purple pride
Of grapes, still glowing with the autumn sun!
And we sipped other fruit too, little one.
THOMAS WESTWOOD.

We' ae buik on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee.

Oh mind ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi' shame,
When'er the schule-weans laughin' said
We clecked thegither hame?
And mind ye o' the Saturdays,

(The schule then skail't at noon,) When we ran off to speel the braes, The broomy braes of June?

My head rins round and round about,
My heart flows like a sea,

As ane by ane the thochts rush back
O' schule-time and o' thee.

O mornin' life! O mornin' luve !
O lichtsome days and lang,
When hinnied hopes around our hearts
Like simmer blossoms sprang!

Oh, mind ye, luve, how oft we left
The deaven' dinsome toun,
To wander by the green burnside,
And hear its waters croon?
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,
The flowers burst round our feet,
And in the gloamin' o' the wood
The throssil whusslit sweet;

The throssil whusslit in the wood,
The burn sang to the trees,
And we with nature's heart in tune
Concerted harmonies;

And, on the knowe abune the burne,
For hours thegither sat

I' the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat.

Ah, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Tears trinkled doun your cheek, Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak:

That was a time, a blessed time

When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth Unsyllabled, unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,
Gin I hae been to thee

As closely twined wi' earliest thochts
As ye has been to me?
Oh! tell gin their music fills

Thine ear as it does mine?

I am here at the gate alone;

Oh! say, gin e'er your heart grows grit
Wi' dreamings o lang syne?

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
I've borne a weary lot;
But in my wanderings far or near,

Ye never were forgot.

The fount that first burst frae this heart

Still travels on its way;
And channels deeper, as it runs,
The luve o' life's young day.

Oh dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Since we were sindered young,
I've never seen your face nor heard
The music o' your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I die,

Did I but ken your heart still dreamed
O' bygone days and me.

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD.

(From "Maud."')

NOME into the garden, Maud,

For the black bat, night, has flown! Come into the garden, Maud,

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the roses blown.

For a breeze of morning moves,

And the Planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves, On a bed of daffodil sky,

To faint in the light of the sun that she loves, To faint in its light, and to die.

All night have the roses heard

The flute, violin, bassoon;

All night has the casement jessamine stirred
To the dancers dancing in tune,-
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.

I said to the lily, "There is but one With whom she has heart to be gay. When will the dancers leave her alone? She is weary of dance and play." Now half to the setting moon are gone, And half to the rising day;

Low on the sand and loud on the stone The last wheel echoes away.

I said to the rose, "The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine;

O young lord-lover, what sighs are those
For one that will never be thine!

But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose "Forever and ever mine!"

And the soul of the rose went into my blood,

As the music clashed in the hall;

And long by the garden lake I stood,

For I heard your rivulet fall

From the lake to the meadow, and on to the

wood,

Our wood, that is dearer than all;

From the meadow your walks have left so

sweet

That whenever a March-wind sighs,

He sets the jewel print of your feet

In violets blue as your eyes,

To the woody hollows in which we meet And the valleys of Paradise.

The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your

sake,

"DON'T BE SORROWFUL, DAR

LING."

DON'T be sorrowful, darling!

And don't be sorrowful, pray;
Taking the year together, my dear,
There isn't more night than day.
'Tis rainy weather, my darling;

Time's waves they heavily run;
But taking the year together, my dear,
There isn't more cloud than sun.

We are old folks now, my darling,

Our heads are growing gray;

But taking the year all around, my dear,
You will always find the May.

We have had our May, my darling,

And our roses long ago;

And the time of the year is coming, my dear, For the silent night and the snow.

But God is God, my darling,

Of the night as well as the day;
And we feel and know that we can go
Wherever He leads the way.

A God of the night, my darling,
Of the night of death so grim;
The gate that leads out of life, good wife,
Is the gate that leads to Him.

REMBRANDT PEALE.

A WOMAN'S QUESTION.

BEFORE I trust my fate to thee,

Or place my hand in thine,

Before I let thy future give

Color and form to mine,

Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul to-night for me.

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel

A shadow of regret;

Is there one link within the Past
That holds thy spirit yet?

Or is thy faith as clear and free as that which
I can pledge to thee?

Does there within my dimmest dreams
A possible future shine,

Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe,
Untouched, unshared by mine?

If so, at any pain or cost, O, tell me before all

is lost.

Look deeper still. If thou cans't feel, Within thy inmost soul,

That thou hast kept a portion back,

While I have staked the whole,

Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy tell me so.

Is there within thy heart a need
That mine cannot fulfill?
One chord that any other hand
Could better wake or still?

Speak now. lest at some future day my whole life wither and decay.

Lives there within thy nature hid
The demon-spirit change,
Shedding a passing glory still

On all things new and strange?

It may not be thy fault alone-but shield my heart against thine own.

Could'st thou withdraw thy hand one day
And answer to my claim,

That Fate, and that to-day's mistake-
Not thou-had been to blame?

Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou wilt surely warn and save me now.

Nay, answer not-I dare not hear,

The words would come too late; Yet I would spare thee all remorse, So comfort thee, my Fate,

Whatever on my heart may fall-remember I would risk it all!

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

THE COQUETTE.
HATSOE'ER she vowed to-day,
Ere a week had fled away,

She'd refuse me;

And shall I her steps pursue,
Follow still, and fondly too?

No, excuse me?

If she love me, it were kind Just to teach me her own mind; Let her lose me!

For no more I'll seek her side, Court her favor, feed her pride; No, excuse me!

Let her frown; frowna never kill; Let her shun me, if she will,

Hate, abuse me;

Shall I bend 'neath her annoy, Bend, and make my heart a toy? No, excuse me!

CHARLES SWAIN.

HOW DO I LOVE THEE?

Now

LTOW do I love thee? Let me count the ways:

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of each day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's
faith.

I love thee with a love I seem to lose

With my lost saints,-I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life!-and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

LOVE'S IMPRESS.

LIER light foot on a noble heart she set, And went again on her heedless way, Vain idol of so steadfast a regret

As never but with life could pass away. Youth and youth's easy virtues, made her fair; Triumphant through the sunny hours she ranged,

Then came the winter-bleak, unlovely, bare, Still ruled her image over one unchanged. So, where some trivial creature played of old, The warm soft clay received the tiny dint ; We cleave the deep rock's bosom, and behold, Sapped in its core the immemorial print.

Men marvel such frail record should outlive The vanished forests and the hills o'er hurled;

But high, souled love can keep a type alive Which has no living answer in the world. E. HINXMAN.