R. H. STODDARD.

She can make charms, and philters, and brew
storms,

And call the great Sea Dragon from his deeps:
Nothing of this know I, nor care to know;
Give me the milk of goats in gourds or shells,
The flesh of birds and fish, berries, and fruit,
Nor want I more, save all day long to lie,
And hear, as now, the voices of the sea.

I'VE lost my little MAY at last!

T. B. Read.

She perished in the spring,
When earliest flowers began to bud,

And earliest birds to sing;

I laid her in a country grave,
A green and soft retreat,
A marble tablet o'er her head,
And violets at her feet.

I would that she were back again,
In all her childish bloom;
My joy and hope have followed her,
My heart is in her tomb!

I know that she is gone away,
I know that she is fled,

I miss her everywhere, and yet
I cannot think her dead!

I wake the children up at dawn,
And say a single prayer,

And draw them round the morning meal,
But one is wanting there!

I see a little chair apart,

A little pinafore,

And Memory fills the vacancy,

As Time will-nevermore!

I sit within my quiet room,

Alone, and write for hours,
And miss the little maid again

Among the window flowers,
And miss her with her toys beside
My desk in silent play;
And then I turn and look for her,
But she has flown away!

I drop my idle pen, and hark,
And catch the faintest sound;
She must be playing hide-and-seek
In shady nooks around;

She'll come and climb my chair again,
And peep my shoulders o'er;

I hear a stifled laugh,-but no,
She cometh nevermore!

I waited only yester-night

The evening service read,
And lingered for my idol's kiss
Before she went to bed;
Forgetting she had gone before,
In slumbers soft and sweet,
A monument above her head,
And violets at her feet.

LEONATUS.

THE fair boy Leonatus,
The page of Imogen:
It was his duty evermore
To tend the Lady Imogen;
By peep of day he might be seen
Tapping against her chamber door,
To wake the sleepy waiting-maid;
She woke, and when she had arrayed
The Princess, and the twain had prayed
(They prayed with rosaries of yore,)
They called him, pacing to and fro;
And cap in hand, and bowing low,
He entered, and began to feed
The singing birds with fruit and seed.

The brave boy Leonatus,
The page of Imogen :

He tripped along the kingly hall,
From room to room, with messages;
He stopped the butler, clutched his keys,
(Albeit he was broad and tall,)
And dragged him down the vaults, where wine
In bins lay beaded and divine,
To pick a flask of vintage fine;
Came up, and clomb the garden wall,
And plucked from out the sunny spots
Peaches, and luscious apricots,
And filled his golden salver there,
And hurried to his Lady fair.

The gallant Leonatus,
The page of Imogen:
He had a steed from Arab ground,
And when the lords and ladies gay
Went hawking in the dews of May,
And hunting in the country round,
And Imogen did join the band,
He rode him like a hunter grand,
A hooded hawk upon his hand,
And by his side a slender hound:
But when they saw the deer go by
He slipped the leash, and let him fly,
And gave his fiery barb the rein,
And scoured beside her o'er the plain.

The strange boy Leonatus,
The page of Imogen :
Sometimes he used to stand for hours
Within her room, behind her chair;
The soft wind blew his golden hair
Across his eyes, and bees from flowers
Hummed round him, but he did not stir:
He fixed his earnest eyes on her,
A pure and reverent worshipper,
A dreamer building airy towers:
But when she spoke he gave a start,
That sent the warm blood from his heart
To flush his cheeks, and every word
The fountain of his feelings stirred.

The sad boy Leonatus,
The page of Imogen :
He lost all relish and delight,
For all things that did please before;
By day he wished the day was o'er,

THE YELLOW MOON.

R. H. STODDARD.

THE yellow moon looks slantly down,
Through seaward mists, upon the town;
And like a dream the moonshine falls
Between the dim and shadowy walls.
I see a crowd in every street,
But cannot hear their falling feet;

They float like clouds through shade and light,
And seem a portion of the night.

The ships have lain, for ages fled,
Along the waters, dark and dead;
The dying waters wash no more
The long black line of spectral shore.
There is no life on land or sea,
Save in the quiet moon and me;
Nor ours is true, but only seems,
Within some dead old world of dreams!

Wave thy poppies round her, Sleep!

Touch her eye-lids, flood her brain; Banish Memory, Thought, and Strife, Bar the portals of her life,

Till the morning comes again!

Let no enemy intrude

On her helpless solitude:

Fear and Pain, and all their train

Keep the evil hounds at bay,

And all evil dreams away!

Thou, thyself, keep thou the key,

Or intrust it unto me,

Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!

A lover's eyes are bright

In the darkest night;

And jealous even of dreams, almost of thee, dear

Sleep!

I must sit, and think, and think,
Till the stars begin to wink:
(For the web of Song is wrought
Only in the looms of Thought!)
She must lie, and sleep, and sleep,
(Be her slumbers calm and deep!)
Till the dews of morning weep;
Therefore bind your sweetest sprite
To her service and delight,

All the night,
Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!
And I'll whisper in her ear,

And scan the night in vain.

The vine o'erruns the lattice,

And lies along its roof,
So thick with leaves and clusters,
It keeps the moon aloof.
By yonder pear-tree splintered,
The ghostly radiance falls,
But fails to pierce the branches,

Or touch the sombre walls.
No moon, no starlight gleaming,
The dark encircles me;
And what is more annoying,

My neighbor cannot see.
She stands beneath her curtains,

Her face against the pane,
Nor knows that I am watching
For her to-night again!

AT REST.

WITH folded hands the lady lies
In flowing robes of white,
A globéd lamp beside her couch,
A round of tender light.
With such a light above her head,
A little year ago,
She walked adown the shadowy vale,
Where the blood-red roses grow!

A shape or shadow joined her there,
To pluck the royal flower,
But from her breast the lily stole,
Which was her only dower.

That gone, all went: her false love first,

And then her peace of heart;

The hard world frowned, her friends grew

cold,

She hid in tears apart:

And now she lies upon her couch,
Amid the dying light:
Nor wakes to hear the little voice
That moans throughout the night!

WILLIAM A. BUTLER.

THE INCOGNITA OF RAPHAEL.*

LONG has the summer sunlight shone
On the fair form, the quaint costume;
Yet nameless still, she sits unknown,
A lady in her youthful bloom.
Fairer for this! no shadows cast

Their blight upon her perfect lot;
Whate'er her future, or her past,

In this bright moment matters not.
No record of her high descent

There needs, nor memory of her name:
Enough that RAPHAEL'S colours blent

To give her features deathless fame!
"T was his anointing hand that set
The crown of beauty on her brow;
Still lives its earlier radiance yet,

As at the earliest, even now.
"Tis not the ecstasy that glows

In all the rapt CECILIA's grace;
Nor yet the holy, calm repose,

He painted on the Virgin's face.
Less of the heavens, and more of earth,
There lurk within these earnest eyes,
The passions that have had their birth,

And grown beneath Italian skies.

What mortal thoughts, and cares, and dreams,
What hopes, and fears, and longings rest,
Where falls the folded veil, or gleams

The golden necklace on her breast.

What mockery of the painted glow
May shade the secret soul within;
What griefs from passion's overflow,
What shame that follows after sin !
Yet calm as heaven's serenest deeps

Are those pure eyes, those glances pure;
And queenly is the state she keeps,

In beauty's lofty trust secure.

And who has stray'd, by happy chance,
Through all those grand and pictured halls,
Nor felt the magic of her glance,

As when a voice of music calls?

Not soon shall I forget the day-
Sweet day, in spring's unclouded time,
While on the glowing canvass lay

The light of that delicious clime

I mark'd the matchiess colours wreathed
On the fair brow, the peerless cheek,
The lips, I fancied, almost breathed
The blessings that they could not speak.
fair were the eyes with mine that bent

Upon the picture their mild gaze,
And dear the voice that gave consent
To all the utterance of my praise.

Oh, fit companionship of thought;
Oh, happy memories, shrined apart;
The rapture that the painter wrought,
The kindred rapture of the heart!

UHLAND.

IT is the poet UHLAND, from whose wreathings
Of rarest harmony I here have drawn,
To lower tones and less melodious breathings,
Some simple strains, of youth and passion bort.
His is the poetry of sweet expression,

Of clear, unfaltering tune, serene and strong; Where gentlest thoughts and words, in soft procession,

Move to the even measures of his song.
Delighting ever in his own calm fancies,
He sees much beauty where most men see naught
Looking at Nature with familiar glances,
And weaving garlands in the groves of thought
He sings of youth, and hope, and high endeavour,
He sings of love-O crown of poesy!-
Of fate, and sorrow, and the grave, forever

The end of strife, the goal of destiny.
He sings of fatherland, the minstrel's glory,
High theme of memory and hope divine,
Twining its fame with gems of antique story,
In Suabian songs and legends of the Rhine;
In ballads breathing many a dim tradition,
Nourish'd in long belief or minstrel rhymes,
Fruit of the old Romance, whose gentle mission
Pass'd from the earth before our wiser times.
Well do they know his name among the mountains,
And plains, and valleys, of his native land;
Part of their nature are the sparkling fountains
Of his clear, thought, with rainbow fancies
spann'd.

His simple lays oft sings the mother cheerful

Beside the cradle in the dim twilight;
His plaintive notes low breathes the maiden tearful
With tender murmurs in the ear of night.

The hillside swain, the reaper in the meadows,
Carol his ditties through the toilsome day;
And the lone hunter in the Alpine shadows
Recalls his ballads by some ruin gray.
O precious gift! O wondrous inspiration!
Of all high deeds, of all harmonious things,
To be the oracle, while a whole nation
Catches the echo from the sounding strings.
Out of the depths of feeling and emotion
Rises the orb of song, serenely bright,
As who beholds, across the tracts of ocean,
The golden sunrise bursting into light.
Wide is its magic world—divided neither
By continent, nor sea, nor narrow zone:
Who would not wish sometimes to travel thither
In fancied fortunes to forget his own?