Group'd their dark hues with every stain With boughs that quaked at every breath, Scott. MISS BLANCHE'S ROSE. ND you are the poet, and so you want A Something what is it--a theme or fancy? Something or other the muse won't grant In your old poetical necromancy. Why, one-half of you poets-you can't denyDon't know the muse when you chance to meet her, But sit in your attics and mope and sigh For a faineant goddess to drop from the sky, What if I told you my own romance? Of man and marriage may choose to make them. Well, it was after the war broke out, And I was a school girl fresh from Paris, Still, it was stupid. Ratata-tat? Those were the sounds of that battle summer, Till the earth seemed a parchment, round and flat, And every foot-fall tap of a drummer; And day by day down the avenue went Cavalry, infantry, all together, Till my pitying angel one day sent None of our dandy warriors they; Men from the West, but where I know not; And I opened the window, and leaning there And I looked from the window along the line, Till an eye like a bayonet flash met mine, And a dark face grew from the darkening column; And a quick flame leaped to my eyes and hair, Then I drew back quickly-there came a cheer, Shoulder to shoulder and side to side, But beaming above them the rose-my pride- And I leaned from the window and watched my rose, I did not go as a nurse to the war- You smile, O poet, and what do you? You lean from the windows, and watch Life's column Trampling and struggling through dust and dew, Filled with its purpose grave and solemn; And an act, a gesture, a face-who knows? Touches your fancy to thrill and haunt you, And you pluck from your bosom that verse that grow, And down it flies like my red red rose, And you sit and dream as away it goes, And think that your duty is done-now don't you? I know your answer. I'm not yet through: Look at the photograph—“In the Trenches"That dead man in the coat of blue Holds a withered rose in his hand! That clenches Nothing. Except that the sun paints true, And a woman sometimes is prophetic-minded, And that's my romance. And, poet, you Take it and mould it to suit your view, And who knows but you may find it to Come to your heart once more as mine did? THE SKYLARK. Bret Harte. B IRD of the wilderness, Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place O to abide in the desert with thee! Wild is thy lay and loud, Far in the downy cloud, Love gives it energy, love gave it birth ; Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. O'er fell and fountain sheen, O'er moor and mountain green, Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! Then, when the gloaming comes, Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place O to abide in the desert with thee! James Hogg. A LITTLE GIRL'S FANCIES. O LITTLE flowers, you love me so, You could not do without me; O little birds, that come and go, You sing sweet songs about me; O little moss, observed by few, That round the tree is creeping, You like my head to rest on you, When I am idly sleeping. O rushes by the river side, You bow when I come near you; O pretty things, you love me so, I'm telling you I will not go, |