Seem'd not so rough as they weresofter in color and grain.

All round her ample waist her frock was gather'd and kilted,

Showing her kirtle, that hung down to the calf of the leg :

Lancashire linsey it was, with bands of various color

Striped on a blue-gray ground: sober, and modest, and warm ; Showing her stout firm legs, made stouter by home-knitted stockings; Ending in strong laced boots, such as a ploughman should wear : Big solid ironshod boots, that added an inch to her stature ;

Studded with nails underneath, shoed like a horse, at the heels. After a day at plough, all clotted with earth from the furrows,

Oh, how unlike were her boots, Rosa Matilda, to yours!

FLOS FLORUM

ONE only rose our village maiden wore ; Upon her breast she wore it, in that part Where many a throbbing pulse doth heave and start

At the mere thought of Love and his sweet lore.

No polish'd gems hath she, no moulded ore, Nor any other masterpiece of art:

She hath but Nature's masterpiece, her

heart;

And that show'd ruddy as the rose she bore Because that he, who sought for steadfast

ness

Vainly in other maids, had found it bare Under the eyelids of this maiden fair, Under the folds of her most simple dress. She let him find it; for she lov'd him, too, As he lov'd her: and all this tale is true.

SWEET NATURE'S VOICE FROM "SUSAN: A POEM OF DEGREES "

HER Master gave the signal, with a look:
Then, timidly as if afraid, she took
In her rough hands the Laureate's dainty
book,

And straight began. But when she did begin,

Her own mute sense of poesy within

Broke forth to hail the poet, and to greet His graceful fancies and the accents sweet In which they are express'd. Oh, lately lost,

Long loved, long honor'd, and whose Captain's post

No living bard is competent to fill

How strange, to the deep heart that now is still,

And to the vanish'd hand, and to the ear Whose soft melodious measures are so dear To us who cannot rival them how strange, If thou, the lord of such a various range, Hadst heard this new voice telling Arden's tale!

For this was no prim maiden, scant and pale,

Full of weak sentiment, and thin delight
In pretty rhymes, who mars the resonant
might

Of noble verse with arts rhetorical
And simulated frenzy: not at all!
This was a peasant woman; large and
strong,

Redhanded, ignorant, unused to song
Accustom'd rather to the rudest prose.
And yet, there lived within her rustic clothes
A heart as true as Arden's; and a brain,
Keener than his, that counts it false and vain
To seem aught else than simply what she is.
How singular, her faculty of bliss!

Bliss in her servile work; bliss deep and full

In things beyond the vision of the dull, Whate'er their rank: things beautiful as

these

Sonorous lines and solemn harmonies
Suiting the tale they tell of; bliss in love—
Ah, chiefly that! which lifts her soul above
Its common life, and gives to labors coarse
Such fervor of imaginative force
As makes a passion of her basest toil.

Surely this servant-dress was but a foil
To her more lofty being! As she read,
Her accent was as pure, and all she said
As full of interest and of varied grace
As were the changeful moods, that o'er her
face

Pass'd, like swift clouds across a windy sky,
At each sad stage of Enoch's history.
Such ease, such pathos, such abandonment
To what she utter'd, moulded as she went
Her soft sweet voice, and with such self-
control

Did she, interpreting the poet's soul,

"It keeps the scent for years," said he,
(And thou hast kept it);

"And when you scent it, think of me."
(He could not mean thus bitterly.)
Ah! I had swept it

Into the dust where dead things rot,
Had I then believ'd his love was not
What I have wept it.

Between the leaves of this holy book,
O flower undying!

A worthless and wither'd weed in look,
I keep thee lying.

The bloom of my life with thee was pluck'd,
And a close-press'd grief its sap hath suck'd,
Its strength updrying.

Thy circles of leaves, like pointed spears, My heart pierce often;

They enter, it inly bleeds, no tears

The hid wounds soften;

Yet one will I ask to bury thee

In the soft white folds of my shroud with

me,

Ere they close my coffin.

shall be,

Mohtasim's jewell'd cup did hold.

Of crystal carven was the cup,

With turquoise set along the brim, A lid of amber clos'd it up;

'Twas a great king that gave it him. The slave pour'd sherbet to the brink, Stirr'd in wild honey and pomegranate, With snow and rose-leaves cool'd the drink,

And bore it where the Caliph sate.

The Caliph's mouth was dry as bone,

He swept his beard aside to quaff: The news-reader beneath the throne Went droning on with ghain and kaj. The Caliph drew a mighty breath,

Just then the reader read a word · And Mohtasim, as grim as death,

Set down the cup and snatch'd his sword.

"Ann' amratan shureefatee!"

"Speak clear!" cries angry Mohtasim; “Fe lasr ind' ilj min ulji,”.

Trembling the newsman read to him How in Ammoria, far from home,

An Arab girl of noble race Was captive to a lord of Roum;

And how he smote her on the face,

And how she cried, for life afraid,

"Ya, Mohtasim! help, O my king!" And how the Kafir mock'd the maid,

And laugh'd, and spake a bitter thing, "Call louder, fool! Mohtasim's ears

Are long as Barak's - if he heedYour prophet's ass; and when he hears, He'll come upon a spotted steed!"

The Caliph's face was stern and red,
He snapp'd the lid upon the cup;
Keep this same sherbet, slave," he said,
"Till such time as I drink it up.
Wallah! the stream my drink shall be,
My hallow'd palm my only bowl,
Till I have set that lady free,

And seen that Roumi dog's head roll."

At dawn the drums of war were beat,
Proclaiming," Thus saith Mohtasim,
'Let all my valiant horsemen meet,
And every soldier bring with him
A spotted steed."" So rode they forth,
A sight of marvel and of fear;

Pied horses prancing fiercely north,
Three lakhs — the cup borne in the rear !

When to Ammoria he did win,

He smote and drove the dogs of Roum, And rode his spotted stallion in,

Crying, "Labbayki! I am come!"
Then downward from her prison-place
Joyful the Arab lady crept;
She held her hair before her face,

She kiss'd his feet, she laugh'd and wept.

She pointed where that lord was laid: They drew him forth, he whin'd for grace: Then with fierce eyes Mohtasim said

"She whom thou smotest on the face Had scorn, because she call'd her king: Lo! he is come! and dost thou think To live, who didst this bitter thing

While Mohtasim at peace did drink ?”

Flash'd the fierce sword-roll'd the lord's head;

Of the falcon, not the bars
Which kept him from these splendid stars

Loving friends! Be wise, and dry
Straightway every weeping eye,
What ye
lift upon the bier

- one

Is not worth a wistful tear.
'Tis an empty sea-shell,
Out of which the pearl is gone;
The shell is broken, it lies there;
The pearl, the all, the soul, is here.
'Tis an earthen jar, whose lid
Allah seal'd, the while it hid
That treasure of his treasury,
A mind that lov'd him; let it lie!
Let the shard be earth's once more,
Since the gold shines in his store!

Allah glorious! Allah good!
Now thy world is understood;
Now the long, long wonder ends;
Yet ye weep, my erring friends,
While the man whom ye call dead,
In unspoken bliss, instead,
Lives and loves you; lost, 't is true,
By such light as shines for you;
But in light ye cannot see
Of unfulfill'd felicity, -

In enlarging paradise,
Lives a life that never dies.

Farewell, friends! Yet not farewell;
Where I am, ye, too, shall dwell.
I am gone before your face,
A moment's time, a little space.
When ye come where I have stepp'd
Ye will wonder why ye wept ;
Ye will know, by wise love taught,
That here is all, and there is naught.
Weep awhile, if ye are fain, —
Sunshine still must follow rain;
Only not at death,- for death.
Now I know, is that first breath
Which our souls draw when we enter
Life, which is of all life centre.

And if he held those English hearts too

good to pave the path

To idle victories, shall we grudge what noble palm he hath?

Like ancient Chief he fought a-front, and mid his soldiers seen,

His work was aye as stern as theirs; oh! make his grave as green.

They know him well, - the Dead who died that Russian wrong should cease,

Where Fortune doth not measure men,

their souls and his have peace ;

in bloody strife,

For English Homes our English Chief

what he had,—his life.