And the lute he plays upon

Shall strike ladies into trouble,

As his sword strikes men to death.

And the steed it shall be shod

All in silver, housed in azure,

And the mane shall swim the wind;
And the hoofs along the sod
Shall flash onward and keep measure,
Till the shepherds look behind.

He will kiss me on the mouth

Then, and lead me as a lover,

Through the crowds that praise his deeds;

And, when soul-tied by one troth,

Unto him I will discover

That swan's nest among the reeds."

Little Ellie, with her smile

Not yet ended, rose up gaily,—

Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe,
And went homeward round a mile

Just to see, as she did daily,

What more eggs were with the two.

Pushing through the elm-tree copse, Winding by the stream, light-hearted, Where the osier pathway leads— Past the boughs she stoops and stops: Lo! the wild swan had deserted, And a rat had gnawed the reeds.

Ellie went home sad and slow.

If she found the lover ever,

With his red-roan steed of steeds,

The Chosen Tree.

Sooth I know not! but I know
She could never show him-never,
That swan's nest among the reeds.

E. B. BROWNING.

93

THE CHOSEN TREE.

BIRD built her nest on a fair young tree,
In the midst of a beautiful wood:

She lined it with feathers and made it so soft,

As only a mother could.

Primroses grew in the long green grass

At the foot of the chosen tree;

And the scent of sweet violets filled the air,
Like odours from Araby.

There the daisy, that modest simple flower,
With its eye of golden hue,

The cowslip sweet, and the wind-flower light
And the graceful harebell grew.

And the dragon-fly, and the painted moth,
And the musical-winged bee,

And the grasshopper came with its chirping voice,
To play 'neath the chosen tree.

Not long ere three tiny heads were seen
Peeping out from their downy nest,
And oh! what a happy mother was she
That warmed them beneath her breast.

She loved them as only a mother loves,

And she sang them her songs of glee; There were no little birds more happy than they, In their nest on the chosen tree.

But one of this little family,

Grew tired of his mother's care, He sat all day in sullen mood And nought to him looked fair.

For the heart of this little bird was changed,
And he thought he should like to roam
Away o'er the fields and the high green hills,
In search of a brighter home.

Ah me! there is not a brighter home
Than that which is lighted by love;
There is no other light so divinely sweet,
Not the moon nor the stars above.

But he fled away, and he sported awhile
Amid flowers of rare perfume and hue,

And when night came on he was weary and cold,
And it rained, and the storm wind blew.

Ah, then he thought of his mother's wing,
Which had covered him tenderly:
And his little brothers so happy and good,
In their home in the chosen tree.

Then he lifted his voice, but none to hear,
The sound of his sorrow were nigh;

So he covered his head with his half-fledged wing,
And he sat on a stone to die.

The Chosen Tree.

Oh! never more in that beautiful wood
Was the song of his gladness heard;
And for many a day did his brothers weep
For the loss of the truant bird.

And for many a day no song of joy

Came up from his mother's breast;
She mourned for him with drooping wings,
But he came not again to his nest.

95

And thus my young friends from this you may learn

How even one child may be

The cause of sorrow which nought may remove
From a little family.

You each have a home in a chosen tree,
Which your parents have lined with love;
Oh cause not the shadows of grief to descend,
This beautiful light to remove.

But seek for that wisdom which comes from on high, And that truth which shall never decay :

That heaven-born peace which the world cannot give, Nor the world in its pride take away.

And your heavenly Father, who dwelleth above,
Will guard you wherever you be ;

He will send down the light of celestial love

To your home in the chosen tree.

JERRAM

THE PRIEST AND THE MULBERBY TREE.

ID you hear of the curate who mounted his mare,
And merrily trotted along to the fair?

Of creature more tractable none ever heard,
In the height of her speed she would stop at a word;
But again with a word, when the curate said, "Hey!"
She put forth her mettle and galloped away.

As near to the gates of the city he rode,
While the sun of September all brilliantly glowed,
The good priest discovered, with eyes of desire,
A mulberry-tree in a hedge of wild briar;
On boughs long and lofty, in many a green shoot,
Hung large, black, and glossy, the beautiful fruit.

The curate was hungry, and thirsty to boot;

He shrunk from the thorns, though he longed for the fruit; With a word he arrested his courser's keen speed,

And he stood up erect on the back of his steed;

On the saddle he stood while the creature stood still,
And he gathered the fruit till he took his good fill.

"Sure never," he thought,

"" was a creature so rare,

So docile, so true, as my excellent mare;

Lo, here now I stand,” and he gazed all around,
"As safe and as steady as if on the ground;
Yet how had it been, if some traveller this way,
Had, dreaming no mischief, but chanced to cry, Hey?"

He stood with his head in the mulberry-tree,
And he spoke out aloud in his fond reverie;