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Yet she heard the varying message, So with proverbs and caresses, half in voiceless to all ears beside:
faith and half in doubt, “He will come,” the flowers whispered; | Everv day some hope was kindled, flick
“Come no more,” the dry hills ered, faded, and went out.
Still she found him with the waters lifted by the morning breeze,
Yearly, down the hillside sweeping, came Still she lost him with the folding of the the stately cavalcade, great white-tented seas;
Bringing revel to vaquero, joy and com
fort to each maid; Until hollows chased the dimples from her cheeks of olive brown,
Bringing days of formal visit, social feast And at times a swift, shy moisture dragged and rustic sport; the long sweet lashes down;
Of bull-baiting on the plaza, of love
making in the court. Or the small mouth curved and quivered
as for some denied caress, And the fair young brow was knitted in Vainly then at Concha’s lattice, -vainly
as the idle wind an infantine distress.
Rose the thin high Spanish tenor that
bespoke the youth too kind; Then the grim Commander, pacing where
the brazen cannon are, Comforted the maid with proverbs, - Vainly, leaning from their saddles, cawisdom gathered from afar;
balleros, bold and fleet,
Plucked for her the buried chicken from Bits of ancient observation by his fathers
beneath their mustang's feet; garnered, each As a pebble worn and polished in the So in vain the barren hillsides with their current of his speech:
gay serapes blazed,
Blazed and vanished in the dust-cloud "Those who wait the coming rider travel that their flying hoofs had raised.
twice as far as he'; “Tired wench and coming butter never did in time agree.
Then the drum called from the rampart,
and once more with patient mien «««He that getteth himself honey, though
The Commander and his daughter each
took up the dull routine, a clown, he shall have flies' 'In the end God grinds the miller'; 'In the dark the mole has eyes. Each took up the petty duties of a life
apart and lone, “He whose father is Alcalde, of his trial | Till the slow years wrought a music in hath no fear,'
its dreary monotone. And be sure the Count has reasons that
will make his conduct clear.”
Then the voice sententious faltered, and Forty years on wall and bastion swept
the hollow idle breeze, the wisdom it would teach Lost itself in fondest trifles of his soft Since the Russian eagle fluttered from Castilian speech;
the California seas.
And on “Concha,” “Conchitita," and Forty years on wall and bastion wrought “Conchita,” he would dwell
its slow but sure decay; With the fond reiteration which the And St. George's cross was lifted in the Spaniard knows so well.
port of Monterey.
FRANCIS BRET HARTE.
And the citadel was lighted, and the hall | Till one arose, and from his pack's scant was gayly drest,
treasure All to honor Sir George Simpson, famous A hoarded volume drew, traveller and guest.
And cards were dropped from hands of
To hear the tale anew; Far and near the people gathered to the
costly banquet set, And exchanged congratulation with the And then, while round them shadows English baronet;
And as the firelight fell, Till the formal speeches ended, and He read aloud the book wherein the amidst the laugh and wine
Master Some one spoke of Concha's lover,
Had writ of “Little Nell." heedless of the warning sign. Quickly then cried Sir George Simpson :
Perhaps 't was boyish fancy,—for the
reader “Speak no ill of him, I pray. He is dead. He died, poor fellow, forty But, as he read, from clustering pine and
Was youngest of them all, years ago this day.
A silence seemed to fall; “Died while speeding home to Russia,
falling from a fractious horse. Left a sweetheart too, they tell me.
The fir-trees, gathering closer in the
shadows, Married, I suppose, of course!
Listened in every spray,
While the whole camp, with “ Nell" on Lives she yet? A death-like silence
English meadows, fell on banquet, guests, and hall, Wandered and lost their way. And a trembling figure rising fixed the awe-struck gaze of all.
And so in mountain solitudes-o'ertaken Two black eyesin darkened orbitsgleamed As by some spell divine
beneath the nun's white hood; Their cares dropped from them like the Black serge hid the wasted figure, bowed
needles shaken and stricken where it stood.
From out the gusty pine.
“Lives she yet ?" Sir George repeated. Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire: All were hushed as Concha drew
And he who wrought that spell? Closer yet her nun's attire, “Señor, Ah, towering pine, and stately Kentish pardon, she died too!
DICKENS IN CAMP.
ABOVE the pines the moon was slowly
The river sang below;
Their minarets of snow.
Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant
Blend with the breath that thrills
The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, And on that grave where English oak painted
and holly The ruddy tints of health
And laurel wreaths entwine, On haggard face, and form that drooped Deem it not all a too presumptuous and fainted
folly, In the fierce race for wealth;
This spray of Western pine!
ANNIE D. GREEN (MARIAN
A silvery bloom, with fadeless leaves ;
He gave it to her, sighing;
Her blush a mute replying.
[U. S. A.]
“Mehetabel !” (at last he spoke), THE PURITAN LOVERS.
“My fairest one and dearest! DRAWN out, like lingering bees, to share One thought is ever to heart
my The last, sweet summer weather,
The sweetest and the nearest.
“You read my soul; you know my wish;
O, grant me its fulfilling !" A youth and maiden, heeding not She answered low, “If Heaven smiles, The woods which round them bright- And if my father's willing !
ened, Just conscious of each other's thoughts, No idle passion swayed her heart, Half happy and half frightened.
This quaint New England beauty!
Faith was the guardian of her life, Grave were their brows, and few their Obedience was a duty.
words, And coarse their garb and simple;
Too truthful for reserve, she stood, The maiden's very cheek seemed shy
Her brown eyes earthward casting, To own its worldly dimple.
And held with trembling hand the while
Her white life-everlasting. For stern the time; they dwelt with
Her sober answer pleased the youth,And Fear was oft a comer ;
Frank, clear, and gravely cheerful ; A sober April ushered in
He left her at her father's door, The Pilgrim's toilful summer.
Too happy to be fearful. And stern their creed; they tarried here she looked on high, with earnest plea, Mere desert-land sojourners :
And Heaven seemed bright above her; They must not dream of mirth or rest,
And when she shyly spoke his name, God's humble lesson-learners.
Her father praised her lover.
And when, that night, she sought her
couch, Their mirth was but the golden bells
With head-board high and olden, On priestly garments ringing.
Her prayer was praise, her pillow down,
And all her dreams were golden.
And still upon her throbbing heart,
A few life-everlasting flowers,
Her lover's gift, were lying.
The gravest, something tender, O Venus' myrtles, fresh and green!
The sacred light reposes;
Though gentler care may shield your buds A day of prayer and fasting”;
From north-winds rude and blasting, And then he stopped, and bent to pick As dear to Love, those few, pale flowers A white life-everlasting, -
Of white life-everlasting.
THEY gave the whole long day to idle I KNEW a Princess: she was old, laughter,
Crisp-haired, flat-featured, with a look To fitful song and jest,
Such as no dainty pen of gold
So bent she almost crouched, her face But when at last
return- Was like the Sphinx's face, to me, ing,
Touched with vast patience, desert grace, Taciturn, late, and loath,
And lonesome, brooding mystery. Through the broad meadow in the sunset burning,
What wonder that a faith so strong They reached the gate, one fine spell As hers, so sorrowful, so still, hindered them both.
Should watch in bitter sands so long
Obedient to a burdening will ! Her heart was troubled with a subtile anguish
This Princess was a Slave, - like one Such as but women know That wait, and lest love speak or speak Yet free enough to see the sun,
I read of in a painted tale; not languish,
And all the flowers, without a vail. And what they would, would rather they would not so;
Not of the Lamp, not of the Ring, Till he said, -man-like nothing compre- But of a subtler, fiercer Thing:
The helpless, powerful Slave was she, hending
She was the Slave of Slavery.
She wore a precious smile, so rare Eyes of relentless asking on her the That at her side the whitest queen while,
Were dark, — her darkness was so fair. “Ah, if beyond this gate the path united Our steps as far as death,
Nothing of loveliest loveliness And I might open it!—” His voice,
This strange, sad Princess seemed to affrighted At its own daring, faltered under his Majestic with her calm distress breath.
She was, and beautiful though black:
Then she-whom both his faith and fear Black, but enchanted black, and shut enchanted
In some vague Giant's toiver of air, Far beyond words to tell,
Built higher than her hope was. But Feeling her woman's finest wit had The True Knight came and found her wanted
there. The art he had that knew to blunder so well—
The Knight of the Pale Horse, he laid
His shadowy lance against the spell Shyly drew near, a little step, and mock. That hid her Šelf: as if afraid, ing,
The cruel blackness shrank and fell. “Shall we not be too late For tea?" she said. “I'm quite worn Then, lifting slow her pleasant sleep, out with walking :
Hetook her with him through the night, Yes, thanks, your arm. And will you And swam a River cold and deep, -open the gate?”
Aud vanished up an awful Height.
And, in her Father's House beyond, When the world was in rhythm and life
They gave her beauty, robe, and crown, was its rhyme; - On me, I think, far, faint, and fond, Where the stream of the years flowed so Her eyes to-day look, yearning, down.
noiseless and narrow, That across it there floated the song of
the sparrow; For a sprig of green caraway carries me
To the old village church and the old B. F. TAYLOR
When clear of the floor my feet slowly [U. S. A.]
And timed the sweet pulse of the praise THE OLD-FASHIONED CHOIR.
as they sung I HAVE fancied sometimes, the old Bethel- Till the glory aslant from the afternoon
bent beam, That trembled to earth in the Patriarch's Seemed the rafters of gold in God's temple dream,
begun! Was a ladder of song in that wilderness You may smile at the nasals of old Dea
con Brown, From the pillow of stone to the Blue of Who followed by scent till he ran the the Blest,
tune down, And the angels descending to dwell with And dear sister Green, with more good
ness than grace, ús here, “Old Hundred” and “Corinth” and Rose and fell on the tunes as she stood “China” and “Mear.”
in her place,
And where “Coronation” exultantly All the hearts are not dead, nor under
flows, the sod,
Tried to reach the high notes on the tips That those breaths can blow open to
of her toes!
To the land of the leal they have gone Heaven and God! Ah, “Silver Street” leads by a bright Where the choir and the chorus together
with their song, golden road, -0, not to the hymns that in harmony
0, be lifted, ye Gates! Let me hear them But those sweet human psalms in the
again, old-fashioned choir,
Blessed song, blessed Sabbath, forever
Amen! To the girl that sang alto,—the girl that “Let us sing in His praise,” the good
minister said, All the psalm-books at once fluttered open
LAURA C. REDDEN. at “York,” Sunned their long dotted wings in the
[U. S. A.) words that he read, While the leader leaped into the tune just
ahead, And politely picked up the key-note with A LIGHT is out in Italy, a fork,
A golden tongue of purest flame. And the vicious old viol went growling We watched it burning, long and lone, along,
And every watcher knew its name, At the heels of the girls, in the rear of And knew from whence its fervor came:
That one rare light of Italy,
Which put self-seeking souls to shame! I need not a wing, — bid no genii come, With a wonderful webfrom Arabian loom, This light which burnt for Italy To bear me again up the river of Time, Through all the blackness of her night,
sang air !