Saddle! saddle! saddle!

Leap from the broken door Where the brute Comanché enter'd

And the white-foot treads no more!

The hut is burn'd to ashes,

There are dead men stark outside,

But only a long dark ringlet

Left of the stolen bride.

Go, like the east wind's howling!
Ride with death behind!
Stay not for food or slumber

Till the thieving wolves ye find!
They came before the wedding,
Swifter than prayer or priest;
The bridemen danced to bullets,
The wild dogs ate the feast.

Look to rifle and powder!
Fasten the knife-belt sure!
Loose the coil of the lasso,-
Make the loop secure!
Fold the flask in the poncho!
Fill the pouch with maize!
And ride as if to-morrow

Were the last of living days!

Saddle! saddle! saddle!
Redden spur and thong!
Ride like the mad tornado!
The track is lonely and long.
Spare not horse nor rider!
Fly for the stolen bride!
Bring her home on the crupper,
A scalp on either side!

NORA PERRY.

IN JUNE.

So sweet, so sweet the roses in their blowing,
So sweet the daffodils, so fair to see;
So blithe and gay the humming-bird a-going
From flower to flower, a-hunting with the bee!

So sweet, so sweet the calling of the thrushes,
The calling, cooing, wooing, everywhere;

So sweet the water's song through reeds and rushes,
The plover's piping note, now here, now there!

So sweet, so sweet, from off the fields of clover,

The west winds blowing, blowing up the hill;
So sweet, so sweet, with news of some one's lover,
Fleet footsteps ringing nearer, nearer still!
So near, so near,—now listen, listen, thrushes!
Now plover! blackbird! cease and let me hear;
And water! hush your song through reeds and rushes,
That I may know whose lover cometh near.

So loud, so loud the thrushes kept their calling,
Plover or blackbird never heeding me;
So loud the millstream too kept fretting, falling,
O'er bar and bank, in brawling, boisterous glee.

So loud, so loud; yet blackbird, thrush, nor plover,
Nor noisy millstream in its fret and fall,

Could drown the voice, the low voice of my lover,
My lover calling through the thrushes' call.

66

Come down! come down!"—he call'd, and straight the thrushes

From mate to mate sang all at once- "Come down!" And while the water laugh'd through reed and rushes, The blackbird chirp'd, the plover piped-" Come down!". Then down and off and through the fields of clover I follow'd, follow'd at my lover's call,— Listening no more to blackbird, thrush, or plover, The water's laugh, the mill-stream's fret and fall.

OUT OF THE WINDOW.

OUT of the window she lean'd and laugh'd,
A girl's laugh, idle and foolish and sweet-
Foolish and idle, it dropp'd like a call,

Into the crowded, noisy street.

Up he glanced at the glancing face,

Who had caught the laugh as it flutter'd and fell,

And eye to eye for a moment there
They held each other as if by a spell.

All in a moment passing there—
And into her idle, empty day,
All in that moment something new
Suddenly seem'd to find its way.

And through and through the clamorous hours
That made his clamorous busy day,

A girl's laugh, idle and foolish and sweet,
Into every bargain found its way.

And through and through the crowd of the streets,
At every window in passing by,

He look'd a moment, and seem'd to see
A pair of eyes like the morning sky.

ROBERT KELLY WEEKS.

Born 1840

AD FINEM.

I WOULD not have believed it then,

If
any one had told me so-
Ere you shall see his face again
A year and more shall go.

And let them come again to-day

To pity me and prophesy,

And I will face them all,

and

To all of them-You lie!

say

False prophets all! you lie, you lie !

I will believe no word but his ;

Will say

December is July,

That Autumn April is,

Rather than say he has forgot,

Or will not come who bade me wait,

Who wait him and accuse him not
Of being very late.

He said that he would come in Spring,
And I believed-believe him now,
Though all the birds have ceased to sing
And bare is every bough;

For Spring is not till he appear,
Winter is not when he is nigh—

The only Lord of all my year,
For whom I live-and die!

A PAUSE.

To have the imploring hands of her Clasp'd on his shoulder, and his cheek. Brush'd over slowly by the stir

Of thrilling hair, and not to speak ;

To see within the unlifted eyes

More than the fallen fringes prove Enough to hide, to see the rise

Of tear-drops in them, and not move;

Would this be strange? And yet at last,
What weary man may not do this,
Seeing when the long pursuit is past,
To only cease how sweet it is?

To only cease and be as one

Who, when the fever leaves him, lies
Careless of what is come or gone,
Which yet he cannot realize;

For all his little thought is spent
In wondering what it was that gave

To be so quiet and content,

While yet he is not in the grave.