The old folks, too, were almost home:
Her dimpled hand the latches fingered,
We heard the voices nearer come,
Yet on the doorstep still we lingered.

She shook her ringlets from her hood,

And with a "Thank you, Ned," dissembled, But yet I knew she understood

With what a daring wish I trembled.

A cloud passed kindly overhead,

The moon was slyly peeping through it, Yet hid its face, as if it said,

"Come, now or never! do it! do it!"

My lips till then had only known

The kiss of mother and of sister, But somehow, full upon her own

Sweet, rosy, darling mouth,-I kissed her!

Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still,
O listless woman, weary lover!
To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill,
I'd give, but who can live youth over?

TOUJOURS AMOUR.

PRITHEE tell me, Dimple-Chin,
At what age does Love begin?
Your blue eyes have scarcely seen
Summers three, my fairy queen,
But a miracle of sweets,
-Soft approaches, sly retreats,
Show the little archer there,
Hidden in your pretty hair;
When didst learn a heart to win?
Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin!

"Oh!" the rosy lips reply, I can't tell you if I try. "Tis so long I can't remember: Ask some younger lass than I!"

Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face,
Do your heart and head keep pace?
When does hoary Love expire,
When do frosts put out the fire?
Can its embers burn below
All that chill December snow?
Care you still soft hands to press,
Bonny heads to smooth and bless?
When does love give up the chase?
Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face!

"Ah!" the wise old lips reply,

"Youth may pass and strength may die;

But of Love I can't foretoken:

Ask some older sage than I!"

LAURA, MY DARLING.

LAURA, my darling, the roses have blushed At the kiss of the dew, and our chamber is hushed;

Our murmuring babe to your bosom has clung, And hears in his slumber the song that you sung;

I watch you asleep with your arms round him thrown,

Your links of dark tresses wound in with his own, And the wife is as dear as the gentle young bride Of the hour when you first, darling, came to my side.

Laura, my darling, our sail down the stream Of Youth's summers and winters has been like a dream;

Years have but rounded your womanly grace, And added their spell to the light of your face ; Your soul is the same as though part were not given

To the two, like yourself, sent to bless me from heaven,

Dear lives, springing forth from the life of my life, To make you more near,darling,mother, and wife!

Laura, my darling, there's hazel-eyed Fred,
Asleep in his own tiny cot by the bed,

And little King Arthur, whose curls have the art Of winding their tendrils so close round my heart,

Yet fairer than either, and dearer than both,
Is the true one who gave me in girlhood her troth;
For we, when we mated for evil and good,-
What were we, darling, but babes in the wood?

Laura, my darling, the years which have flown
Brought few of the prizes I pledged to my own.
I said that no sorrow should roughen her way,-
Her life should be cloudless,a long summer's day.
Shadow and sunshine, thistles and flowers,
Which of the two, darling, most have been ours?
Yet to-night, by the smile on your lips, I can see
You are dreaming of me,darling,dreaming of me.

Laura, my darling, the stars, that we knew
In our youth, are still shining as tender and true;
The midnight is sounding its slumberous bell,
And I come to the one who has loved me so well.
Wake, darling, wake, for my vigil is done;
What shall dissever our lives which are one?
Say, while the rose listens under her breath,
Naught until death, darling, naught until
death!"

WHAT THE WINDS BRING.

WHICH is the Wind that brings the cold?
The North Wind, Freddy, and all the snow;
And the sheep will scamper into the fold
When the North begins to blow.

Which is the Wind that brings the heat?
The South Wind, Katy; and corn will grow,
And peaches redden for you to eat,

When the South begins to blow.

Which is the Wind that brings the rain?
The East Wind, Arty; and farmers know
That cows come shivering up the lane
When the East begins to blow.

Which is the Wind that brings the flowers?
The West Wind, Bessy; and soft and low
The birdies sing in the summer hours
When the West begins to blow.

THF JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE.

'Twas a jolly old pedagogue, long ago,

Tall and slender, and sallow and dry; His form was bent, and his gait was slow, His long, thin hair was as white as snow,

But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye; And he sang every night as he went to bed, "Let us be happy down here below; The living should live, though the dead be dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

He taught his scholars the rule of three,

Writing, and reading, and history, too;
He took the little ones up on his knee,
For a kind old heart in his breast had he,

And the wants of the littlest child he knew; "Learn while you're young," he often said, "There is much to enjoy, down here below; Life for the living, and rest for the dead!”

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

"I'm a pretty old man," he gently said, "I have lingered a long while, here below; But my heart is fresh, if my youth is fled!" Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

He smoked his pipe in the balmy air,

Every night when the sun went down, While the soft wind played in his silvery hair, Leaving its tenderest kisses there,

On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old crown And, feeling the kisses, he smiled, and said,

"Twas a glorious world, down here below; "Why wait for happiness till we are dead?' Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

He sat at his door, one midsummer night,
After the sun had sunk in the west,
And the lingering beams of golden light
Made his kindly old face look warm and bright,
While the odorous night-wind whispered
"Rest!"

Gently, gently, he bowed his head. . .

There were angels waiting for him, I know; He was sure of happiness, living or dead, This jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

SHADOWS of lost delight, arise!

And move my darksome soul to tears: Renew the light of faded skies,

The rapture of the fallen spheres:
For I will give to-night to these;
To-morrow to the stormy seas-
Beyond them, it may be, is peace!

Even as I speak the past returns;
I dwell again in Paradise;
Around the ardent spring-tide burns,
Above us laugh the happy skies;
All things in gladness onward move,
And earth beneath and heaven above
Are full of love, and only love.

Of all that joy a part are we,

Of all that love we share the bliss; And know the years to come shall be As full of happiness as this: I drain my madness to the lees; To-morrow to the stormy seasBeyond them, it may be, is peace!

For all the rapture was my own,

And all the falsehood hers; and so The dream that lit the earth is gone, And I the dreamer sadly go: No more of mournful memories; To-morrow to the stormy seasBeyond them, it may be, is peace!

IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN.

My wasted cheeks are wet With tears of vain regret For all I should remember not, And all I would forget.

Oh, how shall these avenge us,

With look, or word, or kiss,

For all the bliss that might have been, And all the pain that is.

THE KISS.

THE lyre I bear, so sweet of sound

I dash it on the frozen ground,

For idle are its golden chords,
And vain of song the burning words.

I kiss thee; let my kiss avail,
Where speech and music both must fail
To tell the love, which else from thee
A secret evermore must be.

A FAREWELL.

FAINT splendors of the night of June,
Sweet radiance of the summer moon,
Upon thy pathway dwell.
Farewell, Estelle ! Farewell!

Dim fragrance of the violet,

And of the briar-rose dew-wet,

REMORSE.

I DIE. I know that men will haunt my graveGreat men to weep a kindred spirit fled-Whose souls in hours of mirthfulness and gloom Upon my verses fed;

I know the critics shall be kind at last,

I know the world shall deem that not in vain

I lived; but I-alas, oh barren past!
Would I could live again

THE PARSON'S COURTSHIP.

THE story, as I heard it told,

I fashion into idle rhyme,

To show that, though the heart grows old, Yet love abides in golden prime.

An aged parson, on his mare,

Was riding where his heart inclined, Yet wore a sober look and air,

As one who had a troubled mind.

For, when he passed the graveyard gate, His eyes grew dim with sudden tears In looking at a slab of slate,

Where lay his wife of other years.

She, dying, said it wronged the dead
To make a wedding on a grave:
The words kept ringing in his head,
And great bewilderment they gave.

He longed to make a second choice,
For every Sunday in the choir
He heard the Widow Churchill's voice,
Until she grew his heart's desire.

The parson's passion, unconfessed,

Like smouldered heat within him burned, Which never once the widow guessed, Or haply it had been returned.

With hazel branch the mare was switched, And cantered down the winding road, And underneath a tree was hitched,

At Captain Churchill's old abode.

The dame was busy sifting flour,

Nor heard the comer till he said, "Be praise to that Almighty Power Who giveth man his daily bread!" The widow-caught by such a guest In just her linsey-woolsey gown, Instead of in her Sunday best

Dropped bashfully her eyelids down.

Then spake her suitor to her face-—
"I have a solemn word to say,
Whereto is need of heavenly grace;
So, Widow Churchill, let us pray!"

Devoutly did the couple kneel

The parson at the rocking-chair, The widow at the spinning-wheel

And this the burden of the prayer:—

He mourned for uncommitted sin, Implored a grace on all mankind,

And asked that love might enter in

And sweetly move the widow's mind. Uprising from his prayerful knees,

"I seek a wife," the parson said, "And, finding thee, if God shall please, Nor thou deny, then let us wed!"

The widow started with surprise
(For women old are women still),
And answered, lifting not her eyes,
"I seek to do the heavenly will."

The heavenly will was plain indeed,
And pointed to the flowery yoke,
For love is not the human need

Of young alone, but aged folk.