FULFILMENT.

But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee again
When the sea gives up her dead.

JEAN INGELOW.

FULFILMENT.

WAKING in May, the peach-tree thought: “Idle and bare! and weaving naught! Here have I slept the winter through,

I, with my Master's work to do!"

Started the buds. The blossoms came
Till all the branches were aflame.
She rocked the birds and wove the green,
A busy tree as ever was seen

Busy and blithe. She drank the dew,
She caught the sunbeams gliding through;
She drew her wealth from sky and soil,.
And rustled gayly in her toil.

Now see the peach-tree's drooping head,
With all her fruit a-blushing red.
Knowing her Master's work is done,
She meekly resteth in the sun.

MARY ELIZAbeth Dodge.

449

BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND.

BLOW, blow, thou winter wind!

Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude ;

Thy tooth is not so keen,

Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
Then, heigh ho! the holly!

This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,

Thou dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot;

Though thou the waters warp,

Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remembered not.

Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
Then, heigh ho! the holly!

This life is most jolly.

SHAKESPEARE.

THE ROSE.

Go, lovely rose !

Tell her that wastes her time and me,

That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,

And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung

In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired,

And not blush so to be admired.

Then die that she

The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee:

How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.

EDMUND Waller

A DEAD ROSE.

O ROSE! Who dares to name thee?

No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet;
But barren and hard, and dry as stubble-wheat :
Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee.

The breeze that used to blow thee

Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away
An odor up the lane, to last all day,

If breathing now, unsweetened would forego thee.

The sun that used to smite thee,

And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,

Till beam appeared to bloom and flower to burn,
If shining now, with not a hue would light thee.

The dew that used to wet thee,

And, white first, grew incarnadined, because
It lay upon thee where the crimson was,

If dropping now, would darken where it met thee.

The fly that lit upon thee

To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet

Along the leaf's pure edges after heat,

If lighting now, would coldly overrun thee.

THE TIGER.

The bee that once did suck thee,

And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,
And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,
If passing now, would blindly overlook thee.

The heart doth recognize thee,

Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet,
Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete,
Though seeing now these changes that disguise thee.

Yes, and the heart doth owe thee

More love, dead rose, than to such roses bold

As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold.

Lie still upon this heart, which breaks below thee!

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

THE TIGER.

TIGER, Tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Framed thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burned that fire within thine eyes?

453