And the moonlight fell above her,
Her secret to discover;

And the moonbeams kissed her hair,
As though no human lover

Had laid his kisses there.

"Look up, brown eyes," he said,
And answer mine;

Lift up those silken fringes
That hide a happy light

Almost divine."

The jealous moonlight drifted
To the finger half uplifted,

Where shone the opal ring

Where the colors danced and shifted
On the pretty, changeful thing.

Just the old, old story

Of light and shade,

Love like the opal tender,
Like it may be to vary-

May be to fade.

Just the old tender story,

Just a glimpse of morning glory
In an earthly Paradise,

With shadowy reflections

In a pair of sweet brown eyes.

Brown eyes a man might well
Be proud to win!

Open to hold his image,
Shut under silken lashes,
Only to shut him in.

O glad eyes, look together,
For life's dark, stormy weather
Grows to a fairer thing

When young eyes look upon it
Through a slender wedding ring.

REUNITED LOVE.

R. D. BLACKMORE.

"I DREAMED that we were lovers still, As tender as we used to be

When I brought you the daffodil,

And you looked up and smiled at me."

"True sweethearts were we then, indeed,
When youth was budding into bloom;
And now the flowers are gone to seed,
And breezes have left no perfume."

Blackwood.

"Because you ever, ever will

Take such a crooked view of things,
Distorting this and that, until
Confusion ends in cavillings."

"Then to the breezes will I toss
The straws we split with temper's loss;
Then seal upon your lips anew

The peace that gentle hearts ensue."

"Oh, welcome then, ye playful ways,
And sunshine of the early days;
And banish to the clouds above
Dull reason, that bedarkens love!"

R. D. BLACKMORE,

THE SEA'S LOVE.

ONCE in the days of old,

In the years of youth and mirth,
The Sea was a lover bright and bold,
And he loved the golden Earth.
The Sun, in his royal raiment clad,
Loved her and found her sweet,
But the Sea was content and glad
Only to be at her feet.

Ah! that the bards should sing,
And wail for the golden years!
Love was and is but an idle thing,
'Tis but a wind that veers.

And Earth in her beauty and pride
Held her lips to the wooing Sun;
He said, "Thou art fair, O my bride,"
And she sang, "I am thine alone."

The faithful Sea at her faithless feet
Rolled with a broken moan;

"O Sun!" he cried, "but thy bride is sweet,
And I am alone, alone!"

Ah! that the bards, etc.

Oft would the Sun depart,

And his bride in her gloom made moan, And the Sea would cry that her loving heart Should be left to pine alone.

And his voice is strange and sad and sweet, "O love, not mine! not mine!

I am content to lie at thy feet,

And love thee in storm and shine."
Ah! that the bards should sing,
And wail for the golden years!
Love was and is but an idle thing,
'Tis but a wind that veers.

Do I love her?

Quick she puts her cuirass on,

Stabs with laughter, stings with scorn;
No, I don't!

FRENCH WITH A MASTER.

Aimer, aimer; c'est à vivre.
("To love, to love; this it is to live.")

TEACH you French? I will, my dear!
Sit and con your lesson here.
What did Adam say to Eve?
Aimer, aimer; c'est à vivre.

Don't pronounce the last word long;
Make it short to suit the song;

Rhyme it to your flowing sleeve,
Aimer, aimer; c'est à vivre.

Sleeve, I said, but what's the harm
If I really meant your arm?
Mine shall twine it (by your leave),
Aimer, aimer; c'est à vivre.

Learning French is full of slips;
Do as I do with the lips;

Here's the right way, you perceive,
Aimer, aimer; c'est à vivre.

French is always spoken best

Breathing deeply from the chest ;

Darling, does your bosom heave?
Aimer, aimer; c'est à vivre.

Now, my dainty little sprite,
Have I taught your lesson right?
Then what pay shall I receive?
Aimer, aimer; c'est à vivre.

Will you think me overbold
If I linger to be told
Whether you yourself believe
Aimer, aimer; c'est à vivre?

Pretty pupil, when you say
All this French to me to-day,
Do you mean it, or deceive?
Aimer, aimer; c'est à vivre.

Tell me, may I understand,
When I press your little hand,
That our hearts together cleave?
Aimer, aimer; c'est à vivre.

Have you in your tresses room
For some orange-buds to bloom?
May I such a garland weave?
Aimer, aimer; c'est à vivre.

NOTE.

Or, if I presume too much,
Teaching French by sense of touch,
Grant me pardon and reprieve!
Aimer, aimer; c'est à vivre.

Sweetheart, no! you cannot go !
Let me sit and hold you so;
Adam did the same to Eve,
Aimer, aimer; c'est à vivre.

THEODORE TILTON.

This dainty little love-poem was read by the Hon. William M. Evarts to the jury in the celebrated Beecher-Tilton case. The poem and its reading was received with the warmest applause, in which court, counsel, and spectators joined. Even the weary jury could not forbear to smile.

AFEARED OF A GAL.

OH, darn it all!—afeared of her,
And such a mite of a gal;

Why, two of her size rolled into one
Won't ditto sister Sal!

Her voice is sweet as the whippoorwill's,
And the sunshine 's in her hair;

But I'd rather face a redskin's knife,
Or the grip of a grizzly bear.

Yet Sal says, "Why, she 's such a dear,
She's just the one for you."

Oh, darn it all!-afeared of a gal,
And me just six feet two!

Though she ain't any size, while I'm

Considerable tall,

I'm nowhere when she speaks to me,

She makes me feel so small.

My face grows red, my tongue gets hitched,
The cussed thing won't go;

It riles me, 'cause it makes her think
I'm most tarnation slow.

And though folks say she's sweet on me,

I guess it can't be true.

Oh, darn it all! — afeared of a gal,

And me just six feet two!

My sakes! just s'pose if what the folks
Is saying should be so!

Go, Cousin Jane, and speak to her,

Find out and let me know;

Tell her the gals should court the men,

For is n't this leap-year?

That's why I'm kind of bashful like,
A waiting for her here.