Ever with restless, wretched heart,
Plying her task, she turns to gaze
Far up the road; and early and late

She harks for a footstep at the door,
And starts at the gust that swings the gate,
And prays for Benjie, who comes no more.

Her fault? O Benjie, and could you steel

Your thoughts towards one who loved you so?Solace she seeks in the whirling wheel,

In duty and love that lighten woe; Striving with labor, not in vain,

To drive away the dull day's dreariness,Blessing the toil that blunts the pain

Of a deeper grief in the body's weariness.

Proud and petted and spoiled was she:
A word, and all her life is changed!
His wavering love too easily

In the great, gay city grows estranged:
One year she sits in the old church pew;
A rustle, a murmur,-O Dorothy! hide
Your face and shut from your soul the view—
"T is Benjie leading a white-veiled bride!

Now father and mother have long been dead, And the bride sleeps under a churchyard stone, And a bent old man with a grizzled head

Walks up the long dim aisle alone. Years blur to a mist; and Dorothy

Sits doubting betwixt the ghost she seems, And the phantom of youth, more real than she,

That meets her there in that haunt of dreams.

Bright young Dorothy, idolized daughter,
Sought by many a youthful adorer,
Life, like a new-risen dawn on the water,
Shining an endless vista before her!
Old Maid Dorothy, wrinkled and gray,
Groping under the farm-house eaves,-
And life was a brief November day

That sets on a world of withered leaves!

Yet faithfulness in the humblest part

Is better at last than proud success, And patience and love in a chastened heart Are pearls more precious than happiness; And in that morning when she shall wake To the spring-time freshness of youth again, All trouble will seem but a flying flake,

And lifelong sorrow a breath on the pane.

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.

THE NUN AND HARP.

WHAT memory fired her pallid face,

What passion stirred her blood,

What tide of sorrow and desire

Poured its forgotten flood

Upon a heart that ceased to beat,

Long since, with thought that life was sweet,

When nights were rich with vernal dusk,

And the rose burst its bud?

Had not the western glory then

Stolen through the latticed room,

Her funeral raiment would have shed
A more heart-breaking gloom;
Had not a dimpled convent-maid
Hung in the doorway, half afraid,
And left the melancholy place

Bright with her blush and bloom!

Beside the gilded harp she stood,

And through the singing strings Wound those wan hands of folded prayer In murmurous preludings.

Then, like a voice, the harp rang high
Its melody, as climb the sky,
Melting against the melting blue,
Some bird's vibrating wings.

Ah, why, of all the songs that grow
Forever tenderer,

Chose she that passionate refrain
Where lovers 'mid the stir

Of wassailers that round them pass
Hide their sweet secret? Now, alas,
In her nun's habit, coifed and veiled,
What meant that song to her!

Slowly the western ray forsook
The statue in its shrine;

A sense of tears thrilled all the air
Along the purpling line.

Earth seemed a place of graves that rang
To hollow footsteps, while she sang,
"Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine!"

HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.

FIDELITY IN DOUBT.

COME, lady, to my song incline,

The last that shall assail thine ear.
None other cares my strains to hear,

And scarce thou feign'st thyself therewith delighted!

Nor know I well if I am loved or slighted;
But this I know, thou radiant one and sweet,
That, loved or spurned, I die before thy feet!
Yea, I will yield this life of mine.

In every deed, if cause appear,
Without another boon to cheer.
Honor it is to be by thee incited

To any deed; and I, when most benighted
By doubt, remind me that times change and fleet,
And brave men still do their occasion meet.

From the French of GUIRAUD LE ROUX.
Translation of HARRIET WATERS PRESTON.

FAITH

BETTER trust all and be deceived,

And weep that trust and that deceiving,
Than doubt one heart that, if believed,
Had blessed one's life with true believing.

O, in this mocking world too fast

The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth;
Better be cheated to the last

Than lose the blessed hope of truth.

FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE,

II.

PARTING AND ABSENCE.

PARTING.

Ir thou dost bid thy friend farewell,
But for one night though that farewell may be,
Press thou his hand in thine.

How canst thou tell how far from thee

Fate or caprice may lead his steps ere that to-mor

row comes?

Men have been known to lightly turn the corner of a street,

And days have grown to months, and months to

lagging years,

Ere they have looked. in loving eyes again.
Parting, at best, is underlaid

With tears and pain.

Therefore, lest sudden death should come between, Or time, or distance, clasp with pressure firm The hand of him who goeth forth;

Unseen, Fate goeth too.

Yes, find thou always time to say some earnest

word

Between the idle talk,

Lest with thee henceforth,

Night and day, regret should walk.

COVENTRY PATVORE