Group'd their dark hues with every stain
The weather-beaten crags retain.

With boughs that quaked at every breath,
Grey birch and aspen wept beneath.
Aloft, the ash and warrior oak
Cast anchor in the rifted rock;
And higher yet the pine-tree hung
His scatter'd trunk, and frequent flung,
Where seem'd the cliffs to meet on high,
His boughs athwart the narrow sky.

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,
When flesh and blood may be standing by,
Quite at your service, should you but greet her.

What if I told you my own romance?
Women are poets if you so take them,
One-third poet-the rest what chance

Of man and marriage may choose to make them.
Give me ten minutes before you go-
Here at the window we'll sit together,
Watching the currents that ebb and flow,
Watching the world as it drifts below,
Up the hot avenue's dusty glow-
Isn't it pleasant, this bright June weather?

Well, it was after the war broke out,

And I was a school girl fresh from Paris,
Papa had contracts, and roamed about,
And I did nothing-for I was an heiress;
Picked some lint, now I think. Perhaps
Knitted some stockings-a dozen nearly,
Havelocks made for the soldiers' caps,
Stood at the fair-tables and peddled traps
Quite at a profit. The shoulder straps
Thought I was pretty. Ah, thank you really!

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
My fate in the shape of a regiment
That halted just as the day was spent
Here, at our door, in the bright June weather.

None of our dandy warriors they;

Men from the West, but where I know not;
Haggard and travel-stained, worn and grey,
With never a ribbon, or lace, or bow-knot;

And I opened the window, and leaning there
I felt in their presence the free wood's blowing;
My neck, and shoulders, and arms were bare-
I did not dream they might think me fair-
But I had some flowers that night in my hair,
And here, in my bosom, a red rose glowing.

And I looked from the window along the line,
Dusty and dirty, grim and solemn,

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,
Till cheeks and shoulders burned altogether,
And the next I found myself standing there
With my eyelids wet, and my cheeks less fair,
And the rose from my bosom tossed high in air,
Like a blood-drop falling on plume and feather.

Then I drew back quickly-there came a cheer,
A rush of figures, a noise and tussle-
And then it was over, and high and clear
My red rose bloomed on his gun's black muzzle.
Then far in the darkness a sharp voice cried,
And slowly and steadily, all together,

Shoulder to shoulder and side to side,
Rising and falling, and swaying wide,

But beaming above them the rose-my pride-
They marched away in the twilight weather.

And I leaned from the window and watched my rose,
'Tossed on the wave of the surging column,
Warmed from above in the sunset glows-
Borne from below by an impulse solemn.
Then I shut the window. I heard no more
Of my soldier friend, my flower neither,
But lived my life as I did before;

I did not go as a nurse to the war-
Sick folks to me are a dreadful bore,
So I didn't go to the hospitals either.

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, on thy dewy wing,

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,
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,

Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms,

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 fish, you leap about with pride
Because you think I hear you;
O river, you shine clear and bright,
To tempt me to look on you;
O water-lilies, pure and white,
You hope that I shall win you.

O pretty things, you love me so,
I see I must not leave you;
You'd find it very dull I know,--
I should not like to grieve you.
Don't wrinkle up, you silly moss;
My flowers, you need not shiver;
My little birds, don't look so cross;
Don't talk so loud, my river.

I'm telling you I will not go,
It's foolish to feel slighted;
It's rude to interrupt me so,
You ought to be delighted.