The waters laid thee at his doore,

Ere yet the early dawn was clear, Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; A fatal ebbe and flow, alas!

To manye more than myne and mee: But each will mourn his own (she sayth), And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.

I shall never hear her more
By the reedy Lindis shore,
"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,
Ere the early dews be falling;

I shall never hear her song,

"Cusha! Cusha!" all along Where the sunny Lindis floweth, Goeth, floweth ;

From the meads where melick groweth, When the water, winding down, Onward floweth to the town.

I shall never see her more

Where the reeds and rushes quiver,
Shiver, quiver;

Stand beside the sobbing river,
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling
To the sandy, lonesome shore;
I shall never hear her calling,
"Leave your meadow-grasses mellow,
Mellow, mellow;

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot;
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow,
Hollow, hollow;

Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow;
Lightfoot, Whitefoot,

From your clovers lift the head;
Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow,
Jetty, to the milking-shed!"

Lady Wilde.

Poems under the pen-name of "Speranza" appeared in the Dublin Nation in its palmy days. They proved to be by Lady Wilde, author of "Ugo Bassi," a tale in verse (1857), and other works. A collection of her poems and translations was published in Dublin (1864) by James

Mrs. Jackson, daughter of Professor N. W. Fiske, was born in Amherst, Mass., in 1831. She was married to Major Hunt, U. S. A.,-who was killed in 1863 while experimenting with a submarine battery,-and by a subsequent marriage became Mrs. Jackson. Her residence was at Newport, R. I. She has published "Verses by H. H." (1871), and a collection of foreign sketches, entitled "Bits of Travel" (1872). Her poetry unites meditative depth with rare sweetness of expression. To the question, "Is she not our best female poct?" Emerson replied, "Why not omit the word female?"

THE WAY TO SING.

The birds must know. Who wisely sings
Will sing as they.

The common air has generous wings:
Songs make their way.

No messenger to run before,
Devising plan;

No mention of the place, or hour,
To any man;

No waiting till some sound betrays A listening ear;

No different voice, no new delays, If steps draw near.

"What bird is that? The song is good."

And eager eyes

Go peering through the dusky wood

In glad surprise.

Then, late at night, when by his fire
The traveller sits,

Watching the flame grow brighter, higher,
The sweet song flits,

By snatches, through his weary brain,
To help him rest:

When next he goes that road again,
An empty nest

On leafless bough will make him sigh:
"Ah me! last spring,

Just here I heard, in passing by,
That rare bird sing."

But while he sighs, remembering
How sweet the song,
The little bird, on tireless wing,
Is borne along

In other air; and other men,
With weary feet,

On other roads, the simple strain
Are finding sweet.

The birds must know. Who wisely sings
Will sing as they.

The common air has generous wings:
Songs make their way.

MARCH.

Beneath the sheltering walls the thin snow clings;
Dead winter's skeleton, left bleaching, white,
Disjointed, crumbling, on the friendly fields.
The inky pools surrender tardily

At noon, to patient herds, a frosty drink
From jagged rims of ice; a subtle red

Of life is kindling every twig and stalk

Of lowly meadow growths; the willows weep,
Their stems in furry white; the pines grow gray
A little, in the biting wind; mid-day
Brings tiny burrowed creatures, peeping out
Alert for sun. Ah, March! We know thou art
Kind-hearted, spite of ugly looks and threats,
And, out of sight, art nursing April's violets!

THOUGHT.

O messenger, art thou the king, or I?
Thou dalliest outside the palace gate
Till on thine idle armor lie the late

And heavy dews; the morn's bright, scornful eye

Reminds thee; then in subtle mockery
Thou smilest at the window where I wait,
Who bade thee ride for life. In empty state
My days go on, while false hours prophesy
Thy quick return; at last, in sad despair,
I cease to bid thee, leave thee free as air,

When lo! thou stand'st before me glad and fleet,
And lay'st undreamed-of treasures at my feet.
Ah, messenger! thy royal blood to buy,
I am too poor. Thou art the king, not I.

OCTOBER.

O suns and skies and clouds of June, And flowers of June together,

Ye cannot rival for one hour

October's bright blue weather;

When loud the bumblebee makes haste,
Belated, thriftless vagrant,
And golden-rod is dying fast,

And lanes with grapes are fragrant;

When gentians roll their fringes tight,
To save them for the morning,
And chestnuts fall from satin burrs
Without a sound of warning;

When on the ground red apples lie
In piles, like jewels shining,
And redder still on old stone walls
Are leaves of woodbine twining;

When all the lovely way-side things Their white-winged seeds are sowing, And in the fields, still green and fair,

Late after-maths are growing;

When springs run low, and on the brooks, In idle golden freighting,

Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush Of woods, for winter waiting;

When comrades seek sweet country haunts,
By twos and twos together,

And count like misers, hour by hour,
October's bright blue weather.

O suns and skies and flowers of June,
Count all your boasts together,
Love loveth best of all the year
October's bright blue weather.

Charles Stuart Calverley.

Comic poet, hymn writer, and translator, Calverley (born 1831) has published under the initials "C. S. C.," in London, "Verses and Translations," "Translations into English and Latin," and "Fly Leaves" (1872), republished in New York. As a writer of vers de société, he differs both from Praed and Holmes, and there is a decidedly original vein in his productions.

LINES SUGGESTED BY THE FOURTEENTH OF
FEBRUARY.

Ere the morn the East has crimsoned,
When the stars are twinkling there,
(As they did in Watts's Hymns,' and
Made him wonder what they were :)
When the forest nymphs are beading
Fern and flower with silvery dew,-
My infallible proceeding

Is to wake, and think of you.

When the hunter's ringing bugle Sounds farewell to field and copse, And I sit before my frugal

Meal of gravy-soup and chops: When (as Gray remarks) "the moping Owl doth to the moon complain,” And the hour suggests elopingFly my thoughts to you again.

May my dreams be granted ever?
Must I aye endure affliction
Rarely realized, if ever,

In our wildest works of fiction?
Madly Romeo loved his Juliet;
Copperfield began to pine
When he hadn't been to school yet-
But their loves were cold to mine.

Give me hope, the least, the dimmest,
Ere I drain the poisoned cup:
Tell me I may tell the chemist

Not to make that arsenic up!
Else the heart must cease to throb in
This my breast; and when, in tones
Hushed, men ask, "Who killed Cock Robin ?"
They'll be told, "Miss Clara J-s."

1 An allusion probably to Miss Jane Taylor's (not Watts's) little poem for children,

"Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

How I wonder what you are!"

Isabella (Craig) Knox.

Mrs. Knox first acquired distinction in literature as Miss Craig, in 1859, by gaining the £50 prize offered by the Crystal Palace Company for the best ode on the centenary celebration of the birth of Burns. She was born in 1831, in Edinburgh, and published a volume of poems in 1856.

THE BRIDES OF QUAIR.

A stillness crept about the house,
At evenfall, in noontide glare;
Upon the silent hills looked forth

The many-windowed house of Quair.

The peacock on the terrace screamed; Browsed on the lawn the timid hare ; The great trees grew i' the avenue,

Calm by the sheltered house of Quair.

The pool was still; around its brim

The alders sickened all the air;

There came no murmur from the streams,

Though nigh flowed Leithen, Tweed, and Quair.

The days hold on their wonted pace,

And men to court and camp repair, Their part to fill of good or ill,

While women keep the house of Quair.

And one is clad in widow's weeds,

And one is maiden-like and fair, And day by day they seek the paths About the lonely fields of Quair.

To see the trout leap in the streams,
The summer clouds reflected there,
The maiden loves in maiden dreams
To hang o'er silver Tweed and Quair.

Within, in pall-black velvet clad,

Sits stately in her oaken chairA stately dame of ancient nameThe mother of the house of Quair.

Her daughter 'broiders by her side,
With heavy, drooping golden hair,
And listens to her frequent plaint-

"Il fare the brides that come to Quair.

"For more than one hath lived in pine, And more than one hath died of care, And more than one hath sorely sinued, Left lonely in the house of Quair.

"Alas! and ere thy father died,

I had not in his heart a share; And now-may God forefend her illThy brother brings his bride to Quair!"

She came; they kissed her in the hall,

They kissed her on the winding stair; They led her to her chamber highThe fairest in the house of Quair.

""Tis fair," she said, on looking forth; "But what although 'twere bleak and bare ?" She looked the love she did not speak, And broke the ancient curse of Quair.

"Where'er he dwells, where'er he goes,

His dangers and his toils I share." What need be said, she was not one Of the ill-fated brides of Quair!

Edward Robert Bulwer.Lytton.

845

Under the name of "Owen Meredith," Lord Lytton the younger, born in 1831, has published several volumes of verse, among them a rhymed romance (1860), entitled "Lucille." He is the only son of the first Lord Lytton, better known as Bulwer, the novelist, and inherits much of his father's talent. For about twenty years he was engaged in diplomatic service, and in 1876 was appointed Viceroy of India; a post from which he withdrew in 1880. He has written fluently and well, though there is a lack of concentration and care manifest in several of his poems. Republished in Boston, they have passed through several editions.

LEOLINE.

In the molten-golden moonlight,
In the deep grass warm and dry,
We watched the fire-fly rise and swim
In floating sparkles by.

All night the hearts of nightingales,
Song-steeping slumberous leaves,
Flowed to us in the shadow there
Below the cottage eaves.

We sang our songs together

Till the stars shook in the skies. We spoke we spoke of common things, Yet the tears were in our eyes. And my hand-I know it trembled

To each light, warm touch of thine; But we were friends, and only friends, My sweet friend, Leoline!