Plump Gertrude passed me with her basket full,

A stronger hand than hers helped it along;

A voice talked with her through the shadows cool More sweet to me than song.

Ah Willie, Willie, was my love less worth

Than apples with their green leaves piled above?

I counted rosiest apples on the earth

Of far less worth than love.

So once it was with me you stooped to talk
Laughing and listening in this very lane:
To think that by this way we used to walk
We shall not walk again!

I let my neighbours pass me, ones and twos
And
groups; the latest said the night grew chill,
And hastened: but I loitered, while the dews

Fell fast I loitered still.

SONG.

Two doves upon the selfsame branch, Two lilies on a single stem,

Two butterflies upon one flower :—

Oh happy they who look on them.

Who look upon them hand in hand

Flushed in the rosy summer light; Who look upon them hand in hand

And never give a thought to night.

MAUDE CLARE.

Out of the church she followed them

With a lofty step and mien :

His bride was like a village maid;

Maude Clare was like a queen.

"Son Thomas," his lady mother said, With smiles, almost with tears : "May Nell and you but live as true As we have done for years;

"Your father thirty years ago Had just your tale to tell;

But he was not so pale as you,

Nor I so pale as Nell."

My lord was pale with inward strife,
And Nell was pale with pride;

My lord gazed long on pale Maude Clare

Or ever he kissed the bride.

"Lo, I have brought my gift, my lord, Have brought my gift," she said:

"To bless the hearth, to bless the board,

To bless the marriage-bed.

"Here's my

half of the golden chain

You wore about your neck,

That day we waded ankle-deep

For lilies in the beck:

66 Here's my half of the faded leaves We plucked from budding bough, With feet amongst the lily leaves,—

The lilies are budding now."

He strove to match her scorn with scorn,

He faltered in his place :

"Lady," he said,—" Maude Clare," he said,—

"Maude Clare :"—and hid his face.

She turn'd to Nell: " My Lady Nell,

I have a gift for you;

Though, were it fruit, the bloom were gone, Or, were it flowers, the dew.

"Take my share of a fickle heart,

Mine of a paltry love:

Take it or leave it as you will,

"And what you leave," said Nell, "I'll take,

And what you spurn, I'll wear;

For he's my lord for better and worse,

And him I love, Maude Clare.