When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete,
The music nearly killed itself, to listen to her feet;

The fiddler mourned his blindness, he heard her so much praised, But blessed himself he was n't deaf when once her voice she raised.

And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung;

Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue. But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands,

And for myself, there's not a thumb or little finger stands.

O, you're the flower of womankind, in country or in town;
The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down.

If some great lord should come this way and see your beauty bright,

And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right.

O, might we live together in lofty palace hall,

Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall;
O, might we live together in a cottage mean and small,
With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall!

O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress;
It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less;
The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low,
But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go!

-William Allingham.

EVANGELINE ON THE PRAIRIE

Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest, Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight,

Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit. Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confessions

Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian. Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night-dews.

Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical moon

light

Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings,

As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade of the oak

trees,

Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie.
Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies
Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers.
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!
Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee?
Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me?
Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie!
Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around
me!

Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor,

Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers. When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee?" Loud and sudden and near the note of a whip-poor-will 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 dark

ness;

And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, "To-morrow!" -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

MANDALAY

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea, There's a Burma girl a-settin', an' I know she thinks o' me; For the wind is in the palm-trees, an' the temple-bells they say: 46 Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!"

Come you back to Mandalay,

Where the old Flotilla lav:

Can't you 'ear their paddles chunking from Rangoon to Mandalay?

On the road to Mandalay,

Where the flyin'-fishes play,

An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!

'Er petticut was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,

An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat-jes' the same as Theebaw's
Queen,

An' I seed her fust a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,
An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:

Bloomin' idol made o' mud

Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd —

Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud! On the road to Mandalay

When the mist was on the rice fields an' the sun was droppin' slow,

She'd git 'er little banjo an' she 'd sing "Kullalo-lo!"

With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' her cheek agin my cheek
We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak.
Elephints a-pilin' teak

In the sludgy, squdgy creek,

Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak! On the road to Mandalay

But that's all shove be'ind me-long ago an' fur away, An' there ain't no 'buses runnin' from the Benk to Mandalay; An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year sodger tells: "If you've 'eard the East a-callin', why, you won't 'eed nothin else."

No! you won't 'eed nothin' else

But them spicy garlic smells

An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells! On the road to Mandalay

I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones,
An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;

Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand, An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand? Beefy face an' grubby 'and

Law! wot do they understand?

I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener, land!
On the road to Mandalay -

Ship me somewheres east of Suez where the best is like the worst. Where there are n't no Ten Commandments, an' a man can raise a thirst;

For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would beBy the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea

On the road to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay,

With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay! On the road to Mandalay,

Where the flyin'-fishes play,

An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay! -Rudyard Kipling.

BRUSHWOOD

On a weary slope of Apennine,
At sober dusk of day's decline,
Out of the solemn solitude
Of Vallombrosa's antique wood,
A withered woman, tanned and bent,
Bearing her bundled brushwood went,
Poising it on her palsied head,

As if in penance for prayers unsaid.

Her dull cheeks channeled were with tears,
Shed in the storms of eighty years;
Her wild hair fell in gusty flow,
White as the foamy brook below:
Still toiled she with her load alone,
With feeble feet, but steadfast will,
To gain her little home, that shone
Like a dreary lantern on the hill.

How far, how very far it seemed,
To where that starry taper gleamed,
Placed by her grandchild on the sill
Of the cottage window on the hill!
Many a parent heart before,

Laden till it could bear no more,

Has seen a heavenward light that smiled,
And knew it placed there by a child; -
A long-gone child, whose anxious face
Gazed toward them down the deeps of space,
Longing for the loved to come

To the quiet of that home.

Steeper and rougher grew the road,
Harder and heavier grew the load;
Her heart beat like a weight of stone
Against her breast. A sigh and moan
Mingled with prayer escaped her lips
Of sorrow, o'er sorrowing night's eclipse.
"Of all who pass me by," she said,
"There is never one to lend me aid;
Could I but gain yon wayside shrine,
There would I rest this load of mine,
And tell my sacred rosary through,
And try what patient prayer would do."

Again she heard the toiling tread
Of one who climbed that way,— and said
"I will be bold, though I should see
A monk or priest, or it should be
The awful abbot, at whose nod
The frighted people toil and plod:
I'll ask his aid to yonder place,
Where I may breathe a little space,
And so regain my home." He came,
And halting by the ancient dame,
Heard her brief story and request,
Which moved the pity in his breast;
And so he straightway took her load,
Toiling beside her up the road,
Until, with heart that overflowed,