Saddle! saddle! saddle! Leap from the broken door Where the brute Comanché enter'd And the white-foot treads no more! The hut is burn'd to ashes, There are dead men stark outside, But only a long dark ringlet Left of the stolen bride. Go, like the east wind's howling! Till the thieving wolves ye find! Look to rifle and powder! Were the last of living days! Saddle! saddle! saddle! NORA PERRY. IN JUNE. So sweet, so sweet the roses in their blowing, So sweet, so sweet the calling of the thrushes, So sweet the water's song through reeds and rushes, So sweet, so sweet, from off the fields of clover, The west winds blowing, blowing up the hill; So loud, so loud the thrushes kept their calling, So loud, so loud; yet blackbird, thrush, nor plover, Could drown the voice, the low voice of my lover, 66 Come down! come down!"—he call'd, and straight the thrushes From mate to mate sang all at once- "Come down!" And while the water laugh'd through reed and rushes, The blackbird chirp'd, the plover piped-" Come down!". Then down and off and through the fields of clover I follow'd, follow'd at my lover's call,— Listening no more to blackbird, thrush, or plover, The water's laugh, the mill-stream's fret and fall. OUT OF THE WINDOW. OUT of the window she lean'd and laugh'd, Into the crowded, noisy street. Up he glanced at the glancing face, Who had caught the laugh as it flutter'd and fell, And eye to eye for a moment there All in a moment passing there— And through and through the clamorous hours A girl's laugh, idle and foolish and sweet, And through and through the crowd of the streets, He look'd a moment, and seem'd to see ROBERT KELLY WEEKS. Born 1840 AD FINEM. I WOULD not have believed it then, If And let them come again to-day To pity me and prophesy, And I will face them all, and To all of them-You lie! say False prophets all! you lie, you lie ! I will believe no word but his ; Will say December is July, That Autumn April is, Rather than say he has forgot, Or will not come who bade me wait, Who wait him and accuse him not He said that he would come in Spring, For Spring is not till he appear, The only Lord of all my year, A PAUSE. To have the imploring hands of her Clasp'd on his shoulder, and his cheek. Brush'd over slowly by the stir Of thrilling hair, and not to speak ; To see within the unlifted eyes More than the fallen fringes prove Enough to hide, to see the rise Of tear-drops in them, and not move; Would this be strange? And yet at last, To only cease and be as one Who, when the fever leaves him, lies For all his little thought is spent To be so quiet and content, While yet he is not in the grave. |