Each grace is a jewel

Would ransom the town;
Her speech has no cruel,
Her praise is renown;
"T is in her as though Beauty,
Resigning to Duty

The sceptre, had still kept the purple and

crown.

THE WISTFUL DAYS

WHAT is there wanting in the Spring?
The air is soft as yesteryear;
The happy-nested green is here,
And half the world is on the wing.

The morning beckons, and like balm Are westward waters blue and calm. Yet something's wanting in the Spring.

What is it wanting in the Spring?
O April, lover to us all,

What is so poignant in thy thrall
When children's merry voices ring?
What haunts us in the cooing dove

More subtle than the speech of Love, What nameless lack or loss of Spring?

SOME space beyond the garden close
I sauntered down the shadowed lawn;
It was the hour when sluggards doze,

The cheerful, zephyr-breathing dawn.
The sun had not yet bathed his face,
Dark reddened from the night's carouse,
When, lo! in festive gypsy grace

The hollyhocks stood nodding brows. They shone full bold and debonair — That fine, trim band of frolic blades; Their ruffles, pinked and purfled fair, Flamed with their riotous rainbow shades. They whispered light each comrade's ears, They flirted with the wooing breeze; The grassy army's stanchest spears

Rose merely to their stalwart knees!

My heart flushed warm with welcome cheer,
They were so royal tall to see;
No high-placed rivals need they fear,
All flowers paid them fealty.
The haughtiest wild rose standing near
Their girdles hardly might attain;
They glowed, the courtiers of a year,
Blithe pages in the Summer's train!

Their radiance mocked the ruddy morn,
So jocund and so saucy free;
Gay vagrants, Flora's bravest born,

They brightened all the emerald lea.

I said: "Glad hearts, the crabbed frost Will soon your sun-dyed glories blight; No evil eye your pride has crossed,

You know not the designs of night.