Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens,

Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship,

Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple,

As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, "Upharsin."

And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-flies,

Wandered alone, and she cried, "O Gabriel! O my beloved'

When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee?"

Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill sounded

Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighboring thickets,

Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence.

"Patience!" whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness;

And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, "To-morrow!"

-H. W. Longfellow.

I

WILL paint her as I see her,

Ten times have the lilies blown
Since she looked upon the sun.
And her face is lily-clear,
Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty
To the law of its own beauty.

Oval cheeks encolored faintly,
Which a trail of golden hair
Keeps from fading off to air;

And a forehead fair and saintly,
Which two blue eyes undershine,
Like meek prayers before a shrine.

Face and figure of a child,—

Though too calm, you think, and tender For the childhood you would lend her.

Yet child-simple, undefiled,

Frank, obedient,-waiting still
On the turnings of your will.

Moving light, as all your things,

As young birds, or early wheat
When the wind blows over it.

Only, free from flutterings

Of loud mirth that scorneth measure,-
Taking love for her chief pleasure,

Choosing pleasures, for the rest,
Which come softly,-just as she,
When she nestles at your knee.

Quiet talk she liketh best,

In a bower of gentle looks,Watering flowers, or reading books. And her voice, it murmurs lowly, As a silver stream may run, Which yet feels, you feel, the sun. And her smile, it seems half holy, As if drawn from thoughts more far Than our common jestings are.

And if any poet knew her,

He would sing of her with falls
Used in lovely madrigals.

And if any painter drew her,

He would paint her unaware
With a halo round the hair.

And if reader read the poem,

He would whisper, "You have done a
Consecrated little Una."

And a dreamer (did you show him
That same picture) would exclaim,
"'Tis my angel with a name!"

And a stranger, when he sees her

In the street even, smileth stilly,
Just as you would at a lily.

And all voices that address her
Soften, sleeken every word,
As if speaking to a bird.

Appears there naught for which to weep, She'll weep for naught for his dear sake;

She clasps her sister in her sleep;

Her love in dreams is most awake.
Her soul, that once with pleasure shook
Did any eyes her beauty own,
Now wonders how they dare to look
On what belongs to him alone.
The indignity of taking gifts
Exhilarates her loving breast;
A rapture of submission lifts
Her life into celestial rest.

There's nothing left of what she was,

Back to the babe the woman dies;
And all the wisdom that she has
Is to love him for being wise.
She's confident because she fears;
And, though discreet when he's away,

If none but her dear despot hears.
She'll prattle like a child at play.
Perchance, when all her praise is said,
He tells the news-a battle won-
On either side ten thousand dead,-
Describing how the whole was done:
She thinks, "He's looking on my face!
I am his joy; whate'er I do,
He sees such time-contenting grace
In that, he'd always have me so!"

M

Y life is like the summer rose That opens to the morning sky, But ere the shades of evening close,

Is scattered on the ground—to die!
Yet on the rose's humble bed

The sweetest dews of night are shed,
As if she wept the waste to see-
But none shall weep a tear for me!
My life is like the autumn leaf

That trembles in the moon's pale ray; Its hold is frail-its date is brief, Restless-and soon to pass away! Yet ere that leaf shall fall and fade,

The parent tree will mourn its shadeThe winds bewail the leafless treeBut none shall breathe a sigh for me?

My life is like the prints which feet

Have left on Tampa's desert strand; Soon as the rising tide shall beat,

All trace will vanish from the sand; Yet, as if grieving to efface

All vestige of the human race,

On that lone shore loud moans the seaBut none, alas! shall mourn for me! --Richard Henry Wilde.