As they lie before her there,
There babbles from chair to chair
A little sweet face

That's a gleam in the place,
With its little gold curls of hair.

Then oh, wonder not that her heart,
From all else would rather part,

Than those tiny blue shoes

That no little feet use,

And whose sight makes such fond tears start!

W. C. Bennett

SUNSHINE.

T glances on the ocean,
It beams on every tree,
The cattle in the meadows,
The flower on the lea;
The morning sky is golden,
And silver streamlets run-
A thousand birds are singing,
To welcome in the sun.

And in the balmy hayfield
The swarthy mowers stand,
Their brows all red and glowing,
The sharp scythe in the hand;
And soon will come the harvest,
The sheaf in triumph borne,
For sunshine's on the hill-side,
And ripening the corn.

The hills and trees and hedgerows,

The smoothly-shaven lawn,

The ripple on the waters

Are golden in the dawn;

There's not a lowly cottage,
A castle or a hall,

But wears a garb of beauty,
For the sunshine's over all.

It gleams upon the window,
It bursts into the room,
It lights the needle's labour,
And shines upon the loom ;
It brings in joy and gladness,
And little children run

From street and lane and alley
To gambol in the sun.

The heart is braver, truer,

And lighter is the tread,
The faith is deeper, stronger

When the sun shines overhead;
Then while we roam the meadows,
And summer flowers twine,

Let's thank the bounteous Heaven
That makes the sun to shine.

G. R. Emerson.

Τ

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

HOSE evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells,

Of youth, and home, and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime!

Those joyous hours are passed away;
And many a heart that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.

And so 'twill be when I am gone-
That tuneful peal will still ring on ;
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.

Moore.

GINEVRA.

F thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance
To Modena, where still religiously

Among her ancient trophies is preserved
Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine),
Stop at a palace near the Reggio Gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.

Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,

Will long detain thee; through their arched walks,
Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse
Of knights and dames, such as in old romance
And lovers, such as in heroic song,

Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,
That in the spring-time, as alone they sat,
Venturing together on a tale of love,

Read only part that day. A summer sun
Sets ere one half is seen; but, ere thou go,
Enter the house-prithee, forget it not--
And look awhile upon a picture there.
'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
The very last of that illustrious race,
Done by Zampieri-but by whom I care not.
He who observes it, ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up, when far away.
She sits, inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half-open, and her finger up,

As though she said Beware!" Her vest of gold
'Broider'd with flowers, and clasp'd from head to foot,
An emerald-stone in every golden clasp;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls. But then her face,
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart-
It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody!

Alone it hangs
Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion,
An oaken-chest, half eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by Antony of Trent

With Scripture-stories from the life of Christ
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old ancestor.

That by the way-it may be true or false-
But don't forget the picture; and thou wilt not,
When thou hast heard the tale they told me there.
She was an only child; from infancy

The joy, the pride of an indulgent sire.
Her mother dying of the gift she gave,

That precious gift, what else remained to him?
The young Ginevra was his all in life,
Still as she grew, for ever in his sight;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
She was all gentleness, all gaiety,

Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ;
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
Great was the joy; but at the bridal feast,
When all sat down, the bride was wanting there.
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,