So tender was its beauty, and
So douce and sweet its air,

I stooped, and yet withheld my hand
Would pluck, and yet would spare.

Now which was best? For spring will pass,
And vernal beauty fly

On maiden's breast or in the grass,

Where would you choose to die?

FROM THE SICILIAN OF VICORTARL

THE LILY AND THE LINDEN.

FAR away under skies of blue,

In the pleasant land beyond the sea, Bathed with sunlight and washed with dew, Budded and bloomed the fleur-de-lis.

Through mists of morning, one by one,
Grandly the perfect leaves unfold,
And the dusky glow of the sinking sun
Flushed and deepened its hues of gold.

She saw him rise o'er the rolling Rhine,
She saw him set in the western sea,
"Where is the empress, garden mine,

Doth rule a realm like the fleur-de-lis?

"The forest trembles before the breath,
From the island oak to the northern pine,
And the blossoms pale with the hue of death
When my anger rustles the tropic vine.

"The lotus wakes from its slumbers lone,
To waft its homage unto me,

And the spice-groves lay before my throne
The tribute due to the fleur-de-lis !"

So hailed she vassals far and wide,

Till her glance swept over a hemisphere,
But noted not, in her queenly pride,
A slender sapling growing near.

Slow uprising o'er glade and glen,

Its branches bent in the breezes free, But its roots were set in the hearts of men, Who gave their life to the linden-tree.

"Speak, O seer of the mighty mien !
Answer, sage of the mystic air!
What is the lot of the linden green?
What is the fate of the lily fair?"

"Hear'st thou the wail of the winter wake?
Hear'st thou the roar of the angry sea?
Ask not, for heaven's own thunders break
On the linden fair and the fleur-de-lis!"

The storm-clouds fade from the murky air,
Again the freshening breezes blow,
The sunbeams rest on the garden rare,

But the lily lies buried beneath the snow!

From the ice-locked Rhine to the western sea
Mournfully spreads the wintry pall,
Cold and still is the fleur-de-lis,

But the linden threatens to shadow all!

Frowning down on the forest wide,

Darkly loometh his giant form,

Alone he stands in his kingly pride,

And mocks at whirlwind and laughs at storm.

"Speak, O sage of the mystic air! Answer, seer of the mighty mien ! Must all thy trees of the forest fair

Fall at the feet of the linden green?"

"Wouldst thou the scroll of the future see?
Thus I divine the fate of all !

A worm is sapping the linden-tree,
The pride that goeth before a fall.

"For shame may come to the haughty crest,
A storm may sweep from the northern sea,
And winds from the east and winds from the west
May blow in wrath o'er the linden-tree !

"Here, where the voice of the winter grieves,
The lily hath lain its regal head;

Bright was the gleam of the golden leaves,
But the lily was flecked with spots of red.

"Behind the clouds of the battle strife

The glow of resurrection see!

Lo! I proclaim a newer life,

The truer birth of the fleur-de-lis !"

Thus saith the seer of the mighty mien,
Thus saith the sage of the mystic air,
The sunshine fell from the linden green
And gilded the grave of the lily fair.

Stewart's Quarterly.

DR. FRED CROSBY.

RAIN.

MILLIONS of massive rain-drops
Have fallen all around;

They have danced on the house-tops,
They have hidden in the ground.

They were liquid like musicians
With anything for keys,
Beating tunes upon the windows,
Keeping time upon the trees.

NOTE.

PROMISE.

THERE is a rainbow in the sky,
Upon the arch where tempests trod;
God wrote it ere the world was dry -

It is the autograph of God.

This quatrain was cut from the body of a poem which contained little else of worth, and the very title of which is now forgotten.

WHAT THEY DREAMED AND SAID.

ROSE dreamed she was a lily,

Lily dreamed she was a rose;

Robin dreamed he was a sparrow,

What the owl dreamed no one knows.

But they all woke up together

As happy as could be.

Said each one: "You 're lovely, neighbor,

But I'm very glad I'm me.'

THE WANDERER.

UPON a mountain height, far from the sea,

I found a shell;

And to my listening ear this lonely thing
Ever a song of ocean seemed to sing,

Ever a tale of ocean seemed to tell.

M. E.

How came this shell upon the mountain height?
Ah, who can say

Whether there dropped by some too careless hand,
Whether there cast when oceans swept the land,

Ere the Eternal had ordained the day?

Strange, was it not? Far from its native deep,
One song it sang :

Sang of the awful mysteries of the tide,
Sang of the storied sea, profound and wide,
Ever with echoes of old ocean rang.

And as the shell upon the mountain height
Sang of the sea,

So do I ever, leagues and leagues away,

So do I ever, wandering where I may,

Sing, O my home! sing, O my home, of thee!

EUGENE FIELD.

METEORS.

TEARS of gold the heavens wept;
They fell and were by billows swept
Into the sea, 'mid coral caves,
Where roll the ever-restless waves.

And thus they lay, till they were found
By mermaids on the ocean's ground.
The sea-nymphs took the gems so rare,
And wound them in their sea-green hair.

And often now some summer's night
The ocean gleams with golden light
Caused by the mermaids sporting there
With tears of gold in flowing hair.

ANNA PH. EICHBERG.

A BROOK SONG.

I'M hastening from the distant hills
With swift and noisy flowing;
Nursed by a thousand tiny rills,
I'm ever onward going.

The willows cannot stay my course,
With all their pliant wooing;

I sing and sing till I am hoarse,
My prattling way pursuing.

I kiss the pebbles as I pass,

And hear them say thev love me,

I make obeisance to the grass

That kindly bends above me.

So onward through the meads and dells
I hasten, never knowing
The secret motive that impels,
Or whither I am going.

A little child comes often here

To watch my quaint commotion
As I go tumbling swift and clear
Down to the distant ocean;
And as he plays upon my brink,
So thoughtless like and merry
And full of noisy song, I think
The child is like me, very.
Through all the years of youthful play,
With ne'er a thought of sorrow,
We, prattling, speed upon our way,
Unmindful of the morrow;

Aye, through these sunny meads and dells.
We gambol, never trowing
The solemn motive that impels,
Or whither we are going.

And men come here to say to me:
"Like you, with weird commotion,
O little singing brooklet, we

Are hastening to the ocean;
Down to a vast and misty deep,
With fleeting tears and laughter

We go, nor rest until we sleep
In that profound Hereafter.

What tides may bear our souls along,
What monsters rise appalling,

What distant shores may hear our song

And answer to our calling?

Ah, who can say! Through meads and dells
We wander, never knowing

The awful motive that impels,

Or whither we are going!"

THE PRAIRIE PATH.

UPON the brown and frozen sod

EUGENE FIELD

The wind's wet fingers shake the rain;
The bare shrubs shiver in the blast
Against the dripping window-pane.
Inside, strange shadows haunt the room,
The flickering firelights rise and fall,
And make I know not what strange shapes
Upon the pale gray parlor wall.