The elder left his wife and child-my vote for these shall tell; The younger's sweetheart has a claim-I'll vote for her as well! Yes! for the myriad speechless tongues, the myriad offer'd lives, The desolation at the heart of orphans and of wives! I go to give my vote alone I curse your shameless shame Who fight for traitors here at home in Peace's holy name! to give my vote alone, but even while I do, I go I vote for dead and living, all—the living dead and you! See yonder tree beside the field, caught in the sudden sough, How conscious of its strength it leans, how straight and steadfast now! If Lincoln bend (for all, through him, my vote I mean to cast)— What winds have blown! what storms he's known! the hickory's straight at last! November, 1864. THE OLD MAN AND THE SPRING-LEAVES. UNDERNEATH the beechen tree All things fall in love with me! All the leaves, so blithe and bright, Wherefore, leaves! so gladly mad? "He is the merry child that play'd I am not the child that play'd Legends leaves and flowers must know; Changed to fairies, in your glee Joy swell'd his heart, joy kiss'd his brow; ""Tis the merry child that play'd Ah! the bright leaves will not know No; they will not hear nor see, THE FIRST TRYST. SHE pulls a rose from her rose-tree, Far over years, far over dreams He plucks from his heart a poem ; These are the world-old lovers, THEODORE TILTON. Born in New York City 1835 NO AND YES. I WATCH'D her at her spinning, So cruel, so uncaring, So scornful was her bearing, Yet sorry wit one uses, Who loves, and thinks he loses Because a maid refuses. Love prospers in the making And quaking and heart-breaking. A woman's first denying X When first I said in pleading— But when again I told her, Then, with her eyes of splendour, So down the lane I led her, Good end from bad beginning! SIR MARMADUKE'S MUSINGS. I WON a noble fame; But, with a sudden frown, My lofty name. I bore a bounteous purse, I gain'd what men call friends; I clasp'd a woman's breast, Or fancied would be true; I am now all bereft,— As when some tower doth fall, But I account it worth All pangs of fair hopes cross'd— So, lest I be inclined To render ill for ill- O God! a sweet good will HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. Born at Calais, Maine, 1835— MAGDALEN. IF any woman of us all, If a Before the Lord should pause and fall, He whom with yearning hearts we love, And underneath our daily skies,— The Maker of the heavens and earth, But breathing of our breath one breath, |