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!
Birds, that sing so sweetly, sung
Ne'er more sweet when I was young;
Some sweet breeze, I will not see,
Steals to kiss me lovingly;

All the leaves, so blithe and bright,
Dancing sing in Maying light
Over me--" At last, at last,
He has stolen from the Past."

Wherefore, leaves! so gladly mad?
I am rather sad than glad.

"He is the merry child that play'd
Underneath our beechen shade,
Years ago; whom all things bright
Gladden'd, glad with his delight!"

I am not the child that play'd
Underneath your beechen shade;
I am not the boy ye sung
Songs to, in lost fairy-tongue.
He read fairy dreams below,

Legends leaves and flowers must know;
He dream'd fairy dreams, and ye

Changed to fairies, in your glee
Dancing, singing from the tree;
And awaken'd fairy-land
Circled childhood's magic wand!

Joy swell'd his heart, joy kiss'd his brow;
I am following funerals now.
Fairy shores from Time depart;
Lost horizons flush my heart.
I am not the child that play'd
Underneath your beechen shade.

""Tis the merry child that play'd
Underneath our beechen shade
Years ago; whom all things bright
Loved, made glad by his delight!"

Ah! the bright leaves will not know
That an old man dreams below!

No; they will not hear nor see,
Clapping their hands at finding me,
Singing, dancing from their tree!
Ah! their happy voices steal
Time away again I feel,
While they sing to me apart,
The lost child come in my heart:
In the enchantment of the Past,
The old man is the child at last!

THE FIRST TRYST.

SHE pulls a rose from her rose-tree,
Kissing its soul to him,

Far over years, far over dreams
And tides of chances dim.

He plucks from his heart a poem ;
A flower-sweet messenger,—
Far over years, far over dreams,
Flutters its soul to her.

These are the world-old lovers,
Clasp'd in one twilight's gleam:
Yet he is but a dream to her,
And she a poet's dream.

THEODORE TILTON.

Born in New York City 1835

NO AND YES.

I WATCH'D her at her spinning,
And this was my beginning
Of wooing and of winning.

So cruel, so uncaring,

So scornful was her bearing,
She set me half despairing.

Yet sorry wit one uses,

Who loves, and thinks he loses

Because a maid refuses.

Love prospers in the making
By help of all its aching

And quaking and heart-breaking.

A woman's first denying
Betokens her complying
Upon a second trying.

X

When first I said in pleading—
"Behold, my love lies bleeding!"
She shook her head unheeding.

But when again I told her,
And blamed her growing colder,
She dropp'd against my shoulder.

Then, with her eyes of splendour,
She gave a look so tender,
I knew she would surrender!

So down the lane I led her,
And while her cheek grew redder,
I sued outright to wed her.

Good end from bad beginning!
My wooing came to winning!
And still I watch her spinning!

SIR MARMADUKE'S MUSINGS.

I WON a noble fame;

But, with a sudden frown,
The people snatch'd my crown,
And in the mire trod down

My lofty name.

I bore a bounteous purse,
And beggars by the way
Then bless'd me day by day;
But I, grown poor as they,
Have now their curse.

I gain'd what men call friends;
But now their love is hate,
And I have learn'd too late
How mated minds unmate,
And friendship ends.

I clasp'd a woman's breast,
As if her heart I knew,

Or fancied would be true;
Who proved, alas! she too,
False like the rest.

I am now all bereft,—

As when some tower doth fall,
With battlements and wall,
And gate and bridge and all,-
And nothing left.

But I account it worth

All pangs of fair hopes cross'd—
All loves and honours lost-
To gain the heavens at cost
Of losing earth.

So, lest I be inclined

To render ill for ill-
Henceforth in me instill,

O God! a sweet good will
To all mankind.

HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.

Born at Calais, Maine, 1835—

MAGDALEN.

IF any woman of us all,

If a
any woman of the street,

Before the Lord should pause and fall,
And with her long hair wipe His feet,—

He whom with yearning hearts we love,
And fain would see with human eyes
Around our living pathway move,

And underneath our daily skies,—

The Maker of the heavens and earth,
The Lord of life, the Lord of death,
With whom the universe had birth-

But breathing of our breath one breath,