Verdant vales and fountains.
bright,

Trees that nod on sloping hills,
Caves that echo, tinkling rills.

If thou canst no charrn disclose In the simplest bud that blows, Go, forsake thy plain and fold; Join the crowd and toil for gold.

Tranquil pleasures never cloy; Banish each tumultuous joyAll but love, for love inspires Fonder wishes, warmer fires.

Love and all its joys be thine; Yet ere thou the reins resign, Hear what Reason seems to sayHear attentive, and obey.

Crimson leaves the rose adorn, But beneath them lurks a thorn, Fair and flowery is the brake, Yet it hides the vengeful snake.

Think not she whose empty pride
Dares the fleecy garb deride,
Think not she who, light and vain,
Scorns the sheep, can love the swain.

Artless deed and simple dress
Mark the chosen shepherdess,
Thoughts by decency controlled,
Well conceived and freely told,

Sense that shuns each conscious air,
Wit that falls ere well aware,
Generous pity prone to sigh
If her kid or lambkin die.

Let not lucre, let not pride,
Draw thee from such charms aside;
Have not those their proper sphere?
Gentle passions triumph here.

See! to sweeten thy repose
The blossom buds, the fountain flows;
Lo! to crown thy healthful board,
All that milk and fruits afford.

Seek no more; the rest is vain:
Pleasure ending soon in pain,
Anguish lightly gilded o'er;
Close thy wish and seek no more.

WILLIAM SHENSTONE.

All things seem strange to me:

I miss the rocky shore Where broke so sullenly

The waves with deafening roar;

The sands that shone like gold Beneath the blazing sun, O'er which the waters rolled, Soft chanting as they run;

And oh, the glorious sight!Ships moving to and fro Like birds upon their flight, So silently they go.

I climb the mountain's height
And sadly gaze around :
No waters meet my sight,
I hear no rushing sound.

Oh, would I were at home Beside the glorious sea, To bathe within its foam And list its melody!

CHARLES P. ILSLEY.

A WORDLESS PRAYER.

HEARD the sob of music as I stood within the great church door And caught the sound of solemn vows;

Then wept as I had not wept before For five long years since I, the bride

Of one short year, stood on the strand One wintry morn, my babe and I,

A stranger in a foreign land, Saved after days of storm at sea From off a wreck all tempest-tossed, Told by the missing, silently,

My husband was among the lost.

I drew my child's hand in my own-
The bride or groom I could not see-
And leaned against a pillared stone

To wait until they passed by me;
I did not know their names or why
I lingered on my homeward way
This bridal company to see,

Or why I wept and longed to pray, Or why I thought about myself.

I was not old, but pain and care Had left their shadow on my face

And scattered silver in my hair.

I heard the murmur of the crowd,
And saw in robe of fleecy white,
That clung about her fragile form

And coiled beneath in waves of light, The girlish bride: her hair was wound

In golden bands about her head;
Her face was fair as folded flowers,
Her lips like dewy roses red.
And he upon whose arm she leaned—

A shudder ran through all my frame;
For he was not her king, but mine:
She had no right to bear his name.

My heart stood still, my lips were dumb; With frenzied grasp I clasped my boy; I saw it all at one swift glance

His love for her, their mingled joy. He thought me dead and little dreamed That I could utter one low cry And turn their golden fruit to dust,

Their happiness to misery.

I would not, but I breathed a prayer
More deep than when beside the sea
I sang a requiem for the dead;

Now he was more than lost to me.

I saw their carriage roll away,

Then looked into my sweet child's face;

His great dark eyes were all ablaze, And oh how plainly I could trace His father's image!-there the same

Sweet smile and lofty brow, the same Unconquered air and heart of fire,

Crowned by the same untarnished name. With silent pain I clung to him:

My lost, lost king lived in my boy; Then wrung from out my wounded heart A wordless prayer: "God give them joy!" God give them joy!"

ADA P. REYNOLDS.

MOTHER EGYPT.

Draw down your great ships to the seas;
Repass the Gates of Hercules;
Go back to wife with babe at breast,
And leave lorn Egypt to her rest."
Is Christ, then, dead as Egypt is?
Ah, Mother Egypt, torn in twain,
There's something grimly wrong in this,
So like some gray, sad woman slain.

Beside her Sphynx and pyramids,
With low and never-lifted head.

If she be dead, respect the dead;
If she be weeping, let her weep;
If she be sleeping, let her sleep;
For, lo! this woman named the stars;
She suckled at her tawny dugs
Your Moses while you reeked in wars

And prowled your woods nude, painted
thugs.

Then back, brave England-back in peaceTo Christian isles of fat increase!

Go back! else bid your high priests take Your great bronze Christs and cannon make; Take down the cross from proud St. Paul's And coin it into cannon-balls.

Your tent not far from Nazareth,

Your camp spreads where His child-feet strayed:

If Christ had seen this work of death,

If Christ had seen these ships invade,

I think the patient Christ had said,

66

What lessons have you raised in stone

To passing nations that shall stand? Like years to hers will leave you lone And yellow as yon yellow sand.

St. George, your lions-whence are they?
From awful, silent Africa.

This Egypt is the lion's lair:
Beware, young Albion, beware!
I know the very Nile shall rise
To drive you from this sacrifice;
And if the seven plagues should come,

The Red Sea swallow sword and steed, Lo! Christian lands stand mute and dumb To see thy more than Moslem deed.

W

JOAQUIN MILLER.

BLUE-EYED ANN.