This tender sorrow for the time past o'er,

To win the day, though now but scanty space

more?

Why does she tremble as the time grows near, And weak defeat and woful victory fear?

Short was the way unto such wingéd feet, Quickly she gained upon him till at last He turned about her eager eyes to meet,

heart,

Above their heads the trumpet blast rang out, And forth they sprang; and she must play her part;

Then flew her white feet, knowing not a doubt, Though slackening once, she turned her head

about,

But then she cried aloud and faster fled

She wavered not, but turned and ran so fast After the prize that should her bliss fulfil, That in her hand it lay ere it was still.

Nor did she rest, but turned about to win Once more, an unblest woful victory — And yet and yet why does her breath begin To fail her, and her feet drag heavily?

But with no sound he raised aloft his hand, And thence what seemed a ray of light there flew

And past the maid rolled on along the sand;
Then trembling she her feet together drew,
And in her heart a strong desire there grew
To have the toy; some god she thought had
given

That gift to her, to make of earth a heaven.

Then from the course with eager steps she ran, And in her odorous bosom laid the gold. But when she turned again, the great-limbed man Now well ahead she failed not to behold, And mindful of her glory waxing cold, Sprang up and followed him in hot pursuit, Though with one hand she touched the golden fruit.

Note, too, the bow that she was wont to bear
She laid aside to grasp the glittering prize,
And o'er her shoulder from the quiver fair
Three arrows fell and lay before her eyes
Unnoticed, as amidst the people's cries
She sprang to head the strong Milanion,
Who now the turning-post had wellnigh won.

But as he set his mighty hand on it, White fingers underneath his own were laid, And white limbs from his dazzled eyes did flit, Then he the second fruit cast by the maid, But she ran on awhile, then as afraid Wavered and stopped, and turned and made no stay Until the globe with its bright fellow lay.

Then, as a troubled glance she cast around, Now far ahead the Argive could she see, And in her garment's hem one hand she wound To keep the double prize, and strenuously Sped o'er the course, and little doubt had she

The goal is? why do her gray eyes grow dim? Why do these tremors run through every limb!

Of the flowers of this planet, though treasures were there,

the store

And preferred in his heart the least ringlet that curled

Down her exquisite neck to the throne of the world!

There's a beauty, forever unchangingly bright, Like the long sunny lapse of a summer's day's light, Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender, Till love falls asleep in its sameness of splendor. This was not the beauty, O, nothing like this, That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of bliss, But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days, Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the

That the navy from Ophir e'er winged to his shore, Yet dim before her were the smiles of them all, And the Light of his Harem was young Nourmahal!

MEETING.

THOMAS Moore.

THE gray sea, and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves, that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed in the slushy sand.

Then a mile of warm, sea-scented beach ;
Three fields to cross, till a farm appears :
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts, beating each to each.

ROBERT BROWNING.

THE LADY'S LOOKING-GLASS.

CELIA and I, the other day,
Walked o'er the sand-hills to the sea:
The setting sun adorned the coast,
His beams entire his fierceness lost :
And on the surface of the deep
The winds lay only not asleep :
The nymphs did, like the scene, appear
Serenely pleasant, calmly fair;
Soft felt her words as flew the air.
With secret joy I heard her say
That she would never miss one day
A walk so fine, a sight so gay,

But, O the change! The winds grow high,
Impending tempests charge the sky,
The lightning flies, the thunder roars,
The big waves lash the frightened shores.
Struck with the horror of the sight,
She turns her head and wings her flight;
And, trembling, vows she'll ne'er again
Approach the shore or view the main.

"Once more at least look back," said I, 66 Thyself in that large glass descry: When thou art in good humor drest, When gentle reason rules thy breast, The sun upon the calmest sea Appears not half so bright as thee: 'Tis then that with delight I rove Upon the boundless depth of love: I bless my chain, I hand my oar, Nor think on all I left on shore.

"But when vain doubt and groundless fear
Do that dear foolish bosom tear;
When the big lip and watery eye
Tell me the rising storm is nigh;
"T is then thou art yon angry main
Deformed by winds and dashed by rain;
And the poor sailor that must try
Its fury labors less than I.
Shipwrecked, in vain to land I make,
While love and fate still drive me back :
Forced to dote on thee thy own way,
I chide thee first, and then obey:
Wretched when from thee, vexed when nigh,
I with thee, or without thee, die."

MATTHEW PRIOR.

THE BELLE OF THE BALL.

YEARS, years ago, ere yet my dreams
Had been of being wise or witty,
Ere I had done with writing themes,
Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty, -
Years, years ago, while all my joys
Were in my fowling-piece and filly;
In short, while I was yet a boy,

I fell in love with Laura Lilly.

I saw her at the county ball;
There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle
Gave signal sweet in that old hall

Of hands across and down the middle,
Hers was the subtlest spell by far

Of all that sets young hearts romancing: She was our queen, our rose, our star;

And then she danced, --O Heaven! her dancing.

She was the daughter of a dean, —

Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic;
She had one brother just thirteen,

Whose color was extremely hectic ;
Her grandmother for many a year,
Had fed the parish with her bounty;
Her second cousin was a peer,
And lord-lieutenant of the county.
But titles and the three-per-cents,

And mortgages, and great relations,
And India bonds, and tithes and rents,
O, what are they to love's sensations?
Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks,
Such wealth, such honors Cupid chooses;
He cares as little for the stocks

As Baron Rothschild for the muses.

"His cheek was redder than the rose;
The comeliest youth was he!
But he is dead and laid in his grave:
Alas, and woe is me!"

"Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever : One foot on sea and one on land,

To one thing constant never.

"Hadst thou been fond, he had been false,

And left thee sad and heavy;

For young men ever were fickle found,
Since summer trees were leafy."

"Now say not so, thou holy friar,

I pray thee say not so;

My love he had the truest heart,

O, he was ever true!

A Man of Cyprus, a Sculptor named Pygmalion, made an Image of a Woman, fairer than any that had yet been seen, and in the end came to love his own handiwork as though it had been alive: wherefore, praying to Venus for help, he obtained his end, for she made the Image alive indeed, and a Woman, and Pygmalion wedded her.

AT Amathus, that from the southern side
Of Cyprus looks across the Syrian sea,
There did in ancient time a man abide
Known to the island-dwellers, for that he
Had wrought most godlike works in imagery,
And day by day still greater honor won,
Which man our old books call Pygmalion.

And didst thou die for me?

Then farewell home; for evermore

A pilgrim I will be.

"But first upon my true-love's grave

My weary limbs I'll lay,

And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf

That wraps his breathless clay."

"Yet stay, fair lady: rest awhile Beneath this cloister wall;

Because when he the untouched block did see
In wandering veins that form there seemed to be,
Whereon he cried out in a careless mood,
"O lady Venus, make this presage good!

"And then this block of stone shall be thy maid, And, not without rich golden ornament, Shall bide within thy quivering myrtle-shade." So spoke he, but the goddess, well content, Unto his hand such godlike mastery sent, That like the first artificer he wrought,

"O stay me not, thou holy friar,
O stay me not, I pray;
No drizzly rain that falls on me
Can wash my fault away."

"Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,
And dry those pearly tears;
For see, beneath this gown of gray
Thy own true-love appears.

"Here forced by grief and hopeless love,
These holy weeds I sought;
And here, amid these lonely walls,
To end my days I thought.

"But haply, for my year of grace
Is not yet passed away,
Might I still hope to win thy love,
No longer would I stay."

"Now farewell grief, and welcome joy
Once more unto my heart;
For since I have found thee, lovely youth,
We nevermore will part."

Adapted by THOMAS PERCY.

And yet, but such as he was wont to do, At first indeed that work divine he deemed, And as the white chips from the chisel flew Of other matters languidly he dreamed, For easy to his hand that labor seemed. And he was stirred with many a troubling thought, And many a doubt perplexed him as he wrought.

And yet, again, at last there came a day When smoother and more shapely grew the stone, And he, grown eager, put all thought away But that which touched his craftsmanship alone, And he would gaze at what his hands had done, Until his heart with boundless joy would swell That all was wrought so wonderfully well.

Yet long it was ere he was satisfied, And with his pride that by his mastery This thing was done, whose equal far and wide In no town of the world a man could see, Came burning longing that the work should be E'en better still, and to his heart there came A strange and strong desire he could not name.