Verse-gracer! deign to grace mine
With lucky-chosen words

That shall breathe a scent of jasmine,
And speak like singing-birds.

Then, thou fair-fashioned letter,

Fly far, and find my dear;
But, O be sure to meet her
When nobody is near-
That her sweet lips be hasted
Kisses on thee to lay:

A bliss I have not tasted
This many, many a day.

Ah! guide her sweet thoughts thither,
Where, in fair flowery spots,
We bound our lives together
With blue forget-me-nots:
There tell her that I wander

In thought, to tryst with her,
And see the woodland squander
Much wealth of wildflower.

Bright bluebells fill the hollow,
White stitchwort drapes the slope;

Never was mead more yellow

With May-bred buttercup

Than is one mossy level,

Deep-hid in the green gloom,

With the sweetest growth of April,

The cowslip's golden plume.

There, where the boughs drooped round her To touch her shoulders fine,

O remind her how I found her

And took her hands in mine,

And told her how I loved her,
Though she had said me nay—
Until at last I moved her,

And chased her frowns away,

And took her kiss-closed promise
To love me evermore-
Until the day fail from us,

Upon Death's lonely shore-
Although she blushed thereafter,
Yet smiled amid her pride;
So tearful-in her laughter,
And happy-when she sighed.

In primrose-paven places

The pleasant blackbird calls, Along the verdured passes,

Through flower-crowded knolls;

And the soft tide of glad branches

Sweet-ripples overhead,

Where we twain have walked with fancies

Too joyful to be said.

Ah! there my spirit lingers

To taste the springtime's charm,

To draw her slender fingers
Lightly along my arm;
And tenderly down-glancing
To meet her lifted gaze,
Timid, but heart-entrancing
Beyond a poet's praise.

Yea, letter, thou shalt deem her,

As I do-blossom-sweet.

Yet, O, pray her remember

My love, until we meet

Lest she should hate thee, letter,

Or time have changed her mind,
To tear my words, and scatter
Thy fragments to the wind.

Nay, nay! she loves me truly,
Her maiden heart is set;
The vows we plighted duly
She never will forget;
And she will know my writing,

And press it to her heart,
And read it o'er, delighting,
Alone, and far apart.

Yea, letter, on thy cover

My love shall kiss her name, And, thinking of her lover,

Shall flush with joyful shame ;
And I will kiss you, letter,
Before I let you go:

And so my lips shall greet her,
And nobody will know.

Yea, all this while I miss her,
With exquisite, sweet pain,
Until I shall re-kiss her,

And clasp her shape again.
O my verses, be her lover,

And kiss her, day by day; And she will repeat you over

When I am far away.

[By kind permission of the author.]

W. WILKINS.

WEDDING BELLS.

Wandering away on tired feet,

Away from the close and crowded street,
Away from the city's smoke and din,
Trying to flee from it and sin.
Faded shawl and faded gown,
Unsmoothed hair of a golden brown,
Eyes once bright

With joyous light,

In shame cast down

'Neath the scorn and frown

Of those who had known her in days that were flown.
The same blue eyes-the abode of tears,

The once light heart-the abode of fears,
While dark despair came creeping in,

As she fled from the city's smoke and din,
With a yearning sigh

And a heart-sick cry

"Oh, to wander away and die!

God, let me die on my mother's grave,
'Tis the only boon I dare to crave."
And she struggled on,

With a weary moan,
In the noon-day heat,

From the dusty street;

And they turned to gaze on the fair young face,
And marvelled much at her beauty and grace:
What cared they if her heart was aching?
How knew they that her heart was breaking?

Forth from the west the red light glowed,
And the weary feet still kept on their road,
Wand'ring on in the golden sheen,

Where the country lanes were fresh and green.

The red light gleamed on the village tower,
And lit up the clock at the sunset hour;
And still her cry

Was, "Oh, to die!

God, let me die on my mother's grave,
'Tis the only boon I care to crave."
The sun uprose, and the light of day
Brightly scattered the clouds of grey;
And the village was gay,
For a holiday.

Merrily echoed the old church bells,
Peal on peal, o'er the hills and dells;
Borne away on the morning breeze
Over the moorland, over the leas;
Back again with a joyous clang!
Merrily, cheerily, on they rang!

But they woke her not, she slumbered on,
With her head laid down on the cold grey stone.
The village was bright

In the gladsome light,

And the village maidens were clad in white,
As side by side

They merrily hied,

In gay procession to meet the bride;
Strewing the path of the village street
With choicest flowers for her dainty feet.

A joyful chime of the bells again,

To proclaim the return of the bridal train;

A louder peal from the old church tower

(As the bride passes on through the floral bower, With the bridegroom, happy, tender, and gay), And the echoes are carried away, away;

But they linger awhile o'er the tombstones grey;