Oh! bright shone the morning, when first as my bride, love,

Thy foot like a sunbeam my threshold cross'd o'er;

And blest on our hearth fell that soft eventide, love,
When first on my bosom thy heart lay, Asthore!

Restlessly now, on my lone pillow turning,

Wear the night-watches, still thinking on thee,

And darker than night breaks the light of the morning,
For my aching eyes find thee not, Cushlo-mo-chree!

CUSHLO-MO-CHREE.

Oh, my loved one! my lost one! say, why didst thou leave me
To linger on earth with my heart in the grave?

Oh, would thy cold arms, love, might ope to receive me
To my rest 'neath the dark boughs that over thee wave!
Still from our once happy dwelling I roam, love,

Evermore seeking, my own bride, for thee;

Oh, Mary wherever thou art is my home, love,
And I'll soon lie beside thee, my Cushlo-mo-chree!

THE SCULPTOR.

John Francis Waller, LL.D.

Do not die, Phene-I am yours now-you

Are mine now-let Fate reach me how she likes,

If

you 'll not die-so, never die! Sit here

My work-room's single seat: I over-lean

This length of hair and lustrous front-they turn
Like an entire flower upward-eyes-lips-last

Your chin-no, last your throat turns 't is their scent
Pulls down my face upon you! Nay, look ever

This one way till I change, grow you-I could
Change into you, beloved!

You by me,

And I by you-this is your hand in mine

And side by side we sit :-all's true.

I have spoken-speak, you!

Thank God!

-O, my life to come!

My Tydeus must be carved, that's there in clay;
Yet how be carved, with you about the chamber?
Where must I place you? When I think that once

This room-full of rough block-work seemed my heaven Without you! Shall I ever work again

Get fairly into my old ways again

Bid each conception stand while, trait by trait,
My hand transfers its lineaments to stone?

Will my mere fancies live near you, my truth

THE SCULPTOR.

The live truth-passing and repassing me

Sitting beside me?

Now speak!

Only, first,

See, all your letters! Was 't not well contrived?

Their hiding-place is Psyche's robe; she keeps

Your letters next her skin which drops out foremost?

:

Ah, this that swam down like a first moonbeam

Into my world!

Again those eyes complete
Their melancholy survey, sweet and slow,
Of all my room holds; to return and rest
On me, with pity, yet some wonder too-
As if God bade some spirit plague a world,
And this were the one moment of surprise
And sorrow while she took her station, pausing
O'er what she sees, finds good, and must destroy!
What gaze you at? Those? Books, I told you of;
Let your first word to me rejoice them, too:
This minion, a Coluthus, writ in red

Bistre and azure by Bessarion's scribe—
Read this line. . no, shame-Homer's be the Greek
First breathed me from the lips of my Greek girl!
My Odyssey in coarse black vivid type,

With faded yellow blossoms 'twixt page and page,
To mark great places with due gratitude;
"He said, and on Antinous directed

A bitter shaft" . . . a flower blots out the rest!
Again upon your search? My statues, then!
-Ah! do not mind that-better that will look
When cast in bronze-an Almaign Kaiser, that,
Swart-green and gold, with truncheon based on hip.
This, rather, turn to! What, unrecognised?

I thought you would have seen that here you sit
As I imagined you,-Hippolyta,

Naked upon her bright Numidian horse!

Recall you this, then? "Carve in bold relief".

So you

THE SCULPTOR.

commanded-“ "Carve, against I come,

A Greek, in Athens, as our fashion was,
Feasting, bay-filleted and thunder-free,

Who rises 'neath the lifted myrtle-branch :

6

Praise those who slew Hipparchus,' cry the guests,
While o'er thy head the singer's myrtle waves,
As erst above our champions': stand up, all!"
See, I have laboured to express your thought!

Robert Browning.

THE PROUDEST LADY.

THE queen is proud on her throne,
And proud are her maids so fine;

But the proudest lady that ever was known
Is a little lady of mine.

And oh she flouts me, she flouts me,
And spurns, and scorns, and scouts me;
Though I drop on my knee and sue for grace,
And beg, and beseech, with the saddest face,

Stil ever the same she doubts me.

She is seven by the kalendar

A lily's almost as tall,

But oh this little lady's by far

The proudest lady of all.

It's her sport and pleasure to flout me,

To spurn, and scorn, and scout me;

But ah! I've a notion it's nought but play,

And that, say what she will and feign what she may,

She can't well do without me!