The snow was crisp beneath our feet,

The moon was full, the fields were gleaming; By hood and tippet shelter'd sweet,

Her face with youth and health was beaming.

The little hand outside her muff,

O sculptor! if you could but mould it !— So lightly touch'd my jacket-cuff,

To keep it warm I had to hold it.

To have her with me there alone,

'Twas love and fear and triumph blended. At last we reach'd the foot-worn stone Where that delicious journey ended.

The old folks, too, were almost home:
Her dimpled hand the latches finger'd,
We heard the voices nearer come,

Yet on the doorstep still we linger'd.

She shook her ringlets from her hood,

And with a "Thank you, Ned!" dissembled, But yet I knew she understood

With what a daring wish I trembled.

A cloud pass'd kindly overhead,

The moon was slyly peeping through it, Yet hid its face, as if it said,

66

Come, now or never! do it! do it!"

My lips till then had only known

The kiss of mother and of sister,
But somehow, full upon her own
Sweet rosy darling mouth-I kiss'd her!

Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still,
O listless woman! weary lover!

To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill,
I'd give but who can live youth over?

HELEN FISKE JACKSON.*

Born at Amherst, Mass: 1833-5.

CORONATION.

Ar the king's gate the subtle noon
Wove filmy yellow nets of sun ;
Into the drowsy snare too soon
The guards fell, one by one.

Through the king's gate, unquestion'd then,
A beggar went, and laugh'd-" This brings
"Me chance, at last, to see if men
"Fare better, being kings!"

The king sate bow'd beneath his crown,
Propping his face with listless hand;
Watching the hour-glass sifting down
Too slow its shining sand.

"Poor man! what wouldst thou have of me?" The beggar turn'd, and, pitying, Replied, like one in a dream- "Of thee

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Nothing: I want the king!'

Uprose the king, and from his head

Shook off the crown, and threw it by : "O man! thou must have known "-he said"A greater king than I!"

Through all the gates, unquestion'd then,
Went king and beggar, hand in hand.
Whisper'd the king—“Shall I know when
Before his throne I stand?"

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

*See Note 25.

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

The guards wak'd, one by one.

"Ho here! ho there! Has no man seen
"The king?" The cry ran to and fro;
Beggar and king, they laugh'd, I ween,
The laugh that free men know.

On the king's gate the moss grew gray;
The king came not. They call'd him dead;
And made his eldest son one day
Slave in his father's stead.

SPINNING.

LIKE a blind spinner in the sun,
I tread my days;

I know that all the threads will run
Appointed ways;

I know each day will bring its task,
And, being blind, no more I ask.

I do not know the use or name
Of that I spin ;

I only know that some one came,
And laid within

My hand the thread, and said—" Since you "Are blind, but one thing you can do."

Sometimes the threads so rough and fast
And tangled fly,

I know wild storms are sweeping past,
And fear that I

Shall fall; but dare not try to find
A safer place, since I am blind.

I know not why, but I am sure
That tint and place

In some great fabric to endure,
Past time and race,

My threads will have: so from the first,
Though blind, I never felt accurst.

I think perhaps this trust has

From one short word

sprung

Said over me when I was young,—
So young, I heard

It, knowing not that God's name sign'd
My brow and seal'd me His though blind.

But whether this be seal or sign,
Within, without,

It matters not: the bond divine
I never doubt.

I know He sat me here, and still
And glad, and blind, I wait His will;

But listen, listen, day by day,

To hear their tread

Who bear the finish'd web away,

And cut the thread,

And bring God's message in the sun— "Thou poor blind spinner! work is done!"

TRYST.

SOMEWHERE thou awaitest,
And I, with lips unkiss'd,
Weep that thus to latest
Thou puttest off our tryst.

The golden bowls are broken,
The silver cords untwine;
Almond flowers in token

Have bloom'd-that I am thine.

Others who would fly thee
In cowardly alarms,

Who hate thee and deny thee,
Thou foldest in thine arms.

How shall I intreat thee
No longer to withhold?
I dare not go to meet thee
O lover far and cold!

O lover! whose lips chilling
So many lips have kiss'd,
Come, even if unwilling,
And keep thy solemn tryst.

GEORGE ARNOLD.

Born at New York 1834-died 1865.

THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE.

"Twas a jolly old pedagogue, long ago,
Tall and slender, and sallow and dry;
His form was bent, and his gait was slow,
His long, thin hair was as white as snow,
But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye;
And he sang every night as he went to bed-
"Let us be happy down here below!

The living should live, though the dead be dead,"—
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

He taught his scholars the rule of three,
Writing, and reading, and history, too;
He took the little ones up on his knee,
For a kind old heart in his breast had he,

And the wants of the littlest child he knew:
"Learn while you're young!" he often said,
"There is much to enjoy, down here below;
Life for the living, and rest for the dead!"
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.