Her gown, her shoes; she keeps no state,
As once when her pure feet were bare.
Or almost worse, if worse can be-

She scolds in parlors, dusts, and trims,
Watches and counts. Oh, is this she
Whom Francis met, whose step was free,
Who with Obedience caroled hymns,
In Umbria walked with Chastity?

Where is her ladyhood? Not here,

Not among modern kinds of men;
But in the stony fields, where clear
Through the thin trees the skies appear,
In delicate spare soil and fen,
And slender landscape and austere.

Author Unknown.

THE MAIDEN AND THE LILY

A

LILY in my garden grew,

Amid the thyme and clover;

No fairer lily ever blew,

Search all the wide world over.

Its beauty passed into my heart:
I knew 'twas very silly,

But I was then a foolish maid,
And it a perfect lily.

One day a learnèd man came by,

With years of knowledge laden,
And him I questioned with a sigh,
Like any foolish maiden:—

"Wise sir, please tell me wherein lies-
I know the question's silly-

The something that my art defies,
And makes a perfect lily."

He smiled, then bending plucked the flower,
Then tore it, leaf and petal,

And talked to me for full an hour,

And thought the point to settle:-
"Therein it lies," at length he cries;
And I-I know 'twas silly-

Could only weep and say, "But where-
O doctor, where's my lily?"

JOHN FRASER.

M

THE BLACKBIRD'S SONG

AGDALEN at Michael's gate

Tirled at the pin;

On Joseph's thorn sang the blackbird,

"Let her in! let her in!"

"Hast thou seen the wounds ?" said Michael; . "Know'st thou thy sin?"

"It is evening, evening," sang the blackbird, "Let her in! let her in!"

"Yes, I have seen the wounds,

And I know my sin."

"She knows it well, well, well," sang the blackbird: "Let her in! let her in!"

"Thou bringest no offerings," said Michael,
"Naught save sin.”

And the blackbird sang, "She is sorry, sorry, sorry,
Let her in! let her in!"

When he had sung himself to sleep,

And night did begin,

One came and opened Michael's gate,
And Magdalen went in.

HENRY KINGSLEY.

IN SPRINGTIDE

HIS is the hour, the day,

THIS

The time, the season sweet.
Quick! listen, laggard feet,

Brook not delay:

Love flies, youth pauses, Maytide will not last;

Forth, forth while yet 'tis time, before the Spring is past.

The Summer's glories shine

From all her garden ground,
With lilies prankt around,

And roses fine;

But the pink blooms or white upon the bursting trees, Primrose and violet sweet, what charm has June like these?

This is the time of song.

From many a joyous throat,
Mute all the dull year long,

Soars love's clear note:

Summer is dumb, and faint with dust and heat;
This is the mirthful time when every sound is sweet.

Fair day of larger light,

Life's own appointed hour,

Young souls bud forth in white-
The world's a-flower.

Thrill, youthful heart; soar upward, limpid voice:
Blossoming time is come-rejoice, rejoice, rejoice!

LEWIS MORRIS.

XXVIII-1032

By there came a damosel;

At a look I loved her well:

But she passed and would not stay

And all the rest has gone away.

And now no fields are fair to see,

Nor any bud on any tree;

Nor have I share in earth or sky-
All for a maiden passing by!

WILLIAM MACDONALD.

THE SONG OF SPRING

'LL away to the garden,
For winter is over;

The Rose is awake

To the song of her lover!

I will go and discover

The passionate Nightingale singing above her.

From the boughs green and golden

That slope to the river,

A nymph gathers lemons

To give to her lover:

I will go and discover

The shy little Nightingale singing above her.

Near the vineyard, where often

I've spied out a rover,

Sits a damsel who sings

To be heard by her lover:

I will go and discover

The bold little Nightingale singing above her.

GIL VICENTE (Portuguese).

Ο

APRIL WEATHER

H HUSH, my heart, and take thine ease,
For here is April weather!

The daffodils beneath the trees

Are all a-row together.

The thrush is back with his old note;

The scarlet tulip blowing;

And white

ay, white as my love's throatThe dogwood boughs are growing.

The lilac bush is sweet again;

Down every wind that passes,

Fly flakes from hedgerow and from lane;
The bees are in the grasses.

And Grief goes out, and Joy comes in,

And Care is but a feather;

And every lad his love can win:

For here is April weather.

LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE.

ASIAN BIRDS

IN THIS May-month, by grace

IN

of Heaven, things shoot apace. The waiting multitude

of fair boughs in the wood,— How few days have arrayed

their beauty in green shade!

What have I seen or heard?
It was the yellow-bird
Sang in the tree: he flew

a flame against the blue;

Upward he flashed. Again,

hark! 'tis his heavenly strain.

Another! Hush! Behold,

many, like boats of gold,

From waving branch to branch

their airy bodies launch.

What music is like this,

where each note is a kiss?

The golden willows lift

their boughs the sun to sift:

Their silken streamers screen the sky with veils of green,

To make a cage of song,

where feathered lovers throng.

How the delicious notes

come bubbling from their throats! Full and sweet, how they are shed like round pearls from a thread! The motions of their flight

are wishes of delight.

Hearing their song, I trace the secret of their grace.

Ah, could I this fair time so fashion into rhyme,

The poem that I sing

would be the voice of spring.

ROBERT Bridges.