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And the sunshine still is golden, But it falls on a silvered head.

NORA PERRY.

And the girlhood dreams, once vanished,
Come back in her winter-time,
Till her feeble pulses tremble

With the thrill of spring-time's prime.

And looking forth from the window,

She thinks how the trees have grown Since, clad in her bridal whiteness,

She crossed the old door-stone.

Though dimmed her eyes' bright azure, And dimmed her hair's young gold, The love in her girlhood plighted

Has never grown dim or old.

They sat in peace in the sunshine
Till the day was almost done,
And then, at its close, an angel

Stole over the threshold stone.

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THE LATE SPRING.

291

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So sweet, so sweet the calling of the thrushes,

The calling, cooing, wooing, every where;

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Plover or blackbird never heeding me;

AFTER THE BALL.

THEY sat and combed their beautiful hair, Their long, bright tresses, one by one, As they laughed and talked in the chamber there,

After the revel was done.

Idly they talked of waltz and quadrille, Idly they laughed, like other girls, Who over the fire, when all is still, Comb out their braids and curls.

Robe of satin and Brussels lace,
Knots of flowers and ribbons, too,
Scattered about in every place,
For the revel is through.

And Maud and Madge in robes of white,

The prettiest nightgowns under the sun, Stockingless, slipperless, sit in the night, For the revel is done, –

Sit and comb their beautiful hair, Those wonderful waves of brown and gold,

So loud the mill-stream too kept fretting, Till the fire is out in the chamber there,

falling,

O'er bar and bank, in brawling, boisterous glee.

So loud, so loud; yet blackbird, thrush, nor plover,

Nor noisy mill-stream, in its fret and

fall,

Could drown the voice, the low voice of my lover,

My lover calling through the thrushes' call.

"Come down, come down!" he called, and straight the thrushes

From mate to mate sang all at once, "Come down!"

And while the water laughed through reeds and rushes,

The blackbird chirped, the plover piped, "Come down!"

Then down and off, and through the fields of clover,

I followed, followed, at my lover's call; Listening no more to blackbird, thrush, or plover,

The water's laugh, the mill-stream's fret and fall.

And the little bare feet are cold.

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He said, "O brother, where's the use of The king sat bowed beneath his crown,

climbing?

Come rather to the shade beside me

here,

Propping his face with listless hand; Watching the hour-glass sifting down Too slow its shining sand.

And break the bread, and pour the plen-Poor man, what wouldst thou have of teous wine!

me?"

The beggar turned, and, pitying, "Why thus forever climbing one sad Replied, like one in a dream, "Of thee,

way?

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Nothing. I want the king."

Uprose the king, and from his head

Shook off the crown and threw it by. "Oman, thou must have known," he said, "A greater king than I!"

Through all the gates, unquestioned then, Went king and beggar hand in hand. Whispered the king, "Shall I know when

Before his throne I stand?'

The beggar laughed. Free winds in haste
Were wiping from the king's hot brow
The crimson lines the crown had traced.
"This is his presence now.".

At the king's gate, the crafty noon
Unwove its yellow nets of sun;
Out of their sleep in terror soon

The guards waked one by one.

"Ho here! Ho there! Has no man seen

The king?" The cry ran to and fro; Beggar and king, they laughed, I ween,

The laugh that free men know.

On the king's gate the moss grew gray: The king came not. They called him

dead:

And made his eldest son one day Slave in his father's stead.

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