THE LOVE-KNOT.

YING her bonnet under her chin,
She tied her raven ringlets in.
But not alone in the silken snare
Did she catch her lovely floating hair,
For, tying her bonnet under her chin,
She tied a young man's heart within.

They were strolling together up the hill,
Where the wind came blowing merry and chill;
And it blew the curls a frolicsome race,
All over the happy peach-colored face.
Till scolding and laughing, she tied them in,
Under her beautiful, dimpled chin.

And it blew a color, bright as the bloom
Of the pinkest fuchsia's tossing plume,
All over the cheeks of the prettiest girl
That ever imprisoned a romping curl,
Or, in tying her bonnet under her chin,
Tied a young man's heart within.

Steeper and steeper grew the hill,
Madder, merrier, chiller still,

The western wind blew down, and played
The wildest tricks with the little maid,
As, tying her bonnet under her chin,
She tied a young man's heart within.

O western wind, do you think it was fair
To play such tricks with her floating hair?
To gladly, gleefully, do your best
To blow her against the young man's breast,
Where he has gladly folded her in,

And kissed her mouth and dimpled chin?

O Ellery Vane, you little thought,
An hour ago, when you besought
This country lass to walk with you,

After the sun had dried the dew,
What terrible danger you'd be in,
As she tied her bonnet under her chin.

NORA PERRY.

A SPINSTER'S STINT.

IX skeins and three, six skeins and three !
Good mother, so you stinted me,
And here they be—ay, six and three!
Stop, busy wheel! stop, noisy wheel!
Long shadows down my chamber steal,
And warn me to make haste and reel.
'T is done the spinning work complete,
O heart of mine, what makes you beat
So fast and sweet, so fast and sweet?
I must have wheat and pinks, to stick
My hat from brim to ribbon, thick-
Slow hands of mine, be quick, be quick!

F all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee, and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb,
The rest complain of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs ;
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.

SIR WALTER Raleigh.

66

BLEST AS THE IMMORTAL GODS.

LEST as the immortal gods is he,
The youth who fondly sits by thee,
And hears and sees thee all the while
Softly speak, and sweetly smile.

'T was this deprived my soul of rest,
And raised such tumults in my breast:
For while I gazed, in transport tost,
My breath was gone, my voice was lost.

My bosom glowed; the subtle flame
Ran quick through all my vital frame;
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung;
My ears with hollow murmurs rung;

In dewy damps my limbs were chilled;
My blood with gentle horrors thrilled:
My feeble pulse forgot to play-

I fainted, sunk, and died away.

From the Greek of SAPPHO, by AMBROSE PHILLIPS.

THE WHISTLE.

OU have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, who stood,

While he sat on a corn-sheaf, at daylight's decline

make!

You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of

To sit there and whistle for-what you mig::t take!"

ROBERT STORY.

A MAIDEN WITH A MILKING-PAIL.

While an arch smile played over her beautiful face. "I would blow it,' he answered; "and then my fair |

maid

Would fly to my side, and would here take her|

place."

I.

HAT change has made the pastures sweet,
And reached the daisies at my feet,

And cloud that wears a golden hem? This lovely world, the hills, the sward— They all look fresh, as if our Lord

But yesterday had finished them.
And here's the field with light aglow:
How fresh its boundary lime-trees show!
And how its wet leaves trembling shine!
Between their trunks come through to me
The morning sparkles of the sea,

Below the level browsing line.

I see the pool inore clear by half
Than pools where other waters laugh,

Up at the breasts of coot and rail.
There, as she passed it on her way,
I saw reflected yesterday

A maiden with a milking-pail. There, neither slowly nor in haste, One hand upon her slender waist,

The other lifted to her pail-
She, rosy in the morning light,
Among the water-daisies white,

Like some fair sloop appeared to sail.
Against her ankles as she trod
The lucky buttercups did nod:

I leaned upon the gate to see.
The sweet thing looked, but did not speak;
A dimple came in either cheek,

And all my heart was gone from me.
Then, as I lingered on the gate,
And she came up like coming fate,

I saw my picture in her eyes-
Clear dancing eyes, more black than sloes!
Cheeks like the mountain pink, that grows
Among white-headed majesties!

I said, "A tale was made of old
That I would fain to thee unfold.

Ah! let me-let me tell the tale." But high she held her comely head: "I cannot heed it now," she said,

"For carrying of the milking-pail."
She laughed. What good to make ado?
I held the gate, and she came through,
And took her homeward path anon.

From the clear pool her face had fled ; It rested on my heart instead,

Reflected when the maid was gone. With happy youth, and work content, So sweet and stately, on she went,

Right careless of the untold tale. Each step she took I loved her more, And followed to her dairy door

The maiden with the milking-pail.

II.

For hearts where wakened love doth lurk,
How fine, how blest a thing is work!

For work does good when reasons fail—
Good; yet the axe at every stroke
The echo of a name awoke-

Her name is Mary Martindale.

I'm glad that echo was not heard
Aright by other men. A bird

Knows doubtless what his own notes tell;
And I know not-but I can say
I felt as shamefaced all that day

As if folks heard her name right well.
And when the west began to glow
I went-I could not choose but go-
To that same dairy on the hill;
And while sweet Mary moved about
Within, I came to her without,

And leaned upon the window-sili.
The garden border where I stood
Was sweet with pinks and southernwood.
I spoke her answer seemed to fail.
I smelt the pinks-I could not see.

The dusk came down and sheltered me,
And in the dusk she heard my tale.
And what is left that I should tell?
I begged a kiss-I pleaded well:

The rosebud lips did long decline;
But yet, I think—I think 't is true-
That, leaned at last into the dew,
One little instant they were mine!

O life! how dear thou hast become!
She laughed at dawn, and I was dumb!
But evening counsels best prevail.
Fair shine the blue that o'er her spreads,
Green be the pastures where she treads,
The maiden with the milking-pail!
JEAN INGELOW.

THE EVE OF ST. AGNES.

T. AGNES' EVE-ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ;
The hare limped trembling through the frozen
grass,

And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
Numb were the beadsman's fingers while he told

His rosary, and while his frosted breath,

Like pious incense from a censer old,

Seemed taking flight for heaven without a death,
Past the sweet virgin's picture, while his prayer he
saith.

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ;
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
Along the chapel isle by slow degrees;

The sculptured dead on each side seemed to freeze,
Emprisoned in black, purgatorial rails;
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat❜ries,
He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails

To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.
Northward he turneth through a little door,
And scarce three steps, ere music's golden tongue
Flattered to tears this aged man and poor;
But no-already had his death-bell rung;
The joys of all his life were said and sung:
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve:
Another way he went, and soon among
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve,
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve.

That ancient beadsman heard the prelude soft;
And so it chanced, for many a door was wide,
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft,
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide;
The level chambers, ready with their pride,
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests:
The carved angels, ever eager eyed,

Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, With hair blown back, and wings put crosswise on their breasts.

At length burst in the argent revelry,
With plume, tiara, and all rich array,
Numerous as shadows haunting fairily

The brain, new-stuffed, in youth, with triumphs gay

Of old romance. These let us wish away;
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady there,
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day,
On love, and winged St. Agnes' saintly care,
As she had heard old dames full many times declare.
They told her how, upon St. Agnes' eve,
Young virgins might have visions of delight,
And soft adorings from their loves receive
Upon the honeyed middle of the night,
If ceremonies due they did aright;
As, supperless to bed they must retire,

And couch supine their beauties, lily white;
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require
Of heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.

Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline;
The music, yearning like a god in pain,
She scarcely heard; her maiden eyes divine,
Fixed on the floor, saw many a sweeping train

And win perhaps that night a peerless bride,
While legioned fairies paced the coverlet,
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed.
Never on such a night have lovers met,

Since Merlin paid his demon all the monstrous debt.

"It shall be as thou wishest," said the dame; "All cates and dainties shall be stored there Quickly on this feast-night; by the tambour frame Her own lute thou wilt see; no time to spare, For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare On such a catering trust my dizzy head.

Wait here, my child, with patience kneel in prayer
The while. Ah! thou must needs the lady wed,
Or may I never leave my grave among the dead."

So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear.
The lover's endless minutes slowly passed :
The dame returned, and whispered in his ear
To follow her; with aged eyes aghast
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last,
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain
The maiden's chamber, silken, hushed and chaste;
Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain.
His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.

Her faltering hand upon the balustrade,
Old Angela was feeling for the stair,
When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid,
Rose, like a missioned spirit, unaware;
With silver taper's light, and pious care,
She turned, and down the aged gossip led
To a safe level matting. Now prepare,
Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed!

Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
And on her hair a glory, like a saint;
She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest,
Save wings, for heaven. Porphyro grew faint :
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.

Anon his heart revives; her vespers done,
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees:
Unclasps her warmèd jewels one by one;
Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees;
Half hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed,

But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fl-d.
Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay,
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressed
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;
Flown like a thought, until the morrow-day;
Blissfully havened both from joy and pain;
Clasped like a missal where swart Paynims pray;
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.
Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced,
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress,
And listened to her breathing, if it chanced
To wake into a slumberous tenderness:
Which when he heard, that minute did he bless,
And breathed himself; then from the closet crept,
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,

And over the hushed carpet, silent, stept,

and fled.

Out went the taper as she hurried in ;

Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died;
She closed the door, she panted, all akin
To spirits of the air, and visions wide;
No uttered syllable, or, woe betide!
But to her heart, her heart was voluble,
Paining with eloquence her balmy side;
As though a tongueless nightingale should swell
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in her dell.

A casement high and triple-arched there was,
All garlanded with carven imageries

Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,
And diamonded with panes of quaint device,
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked wings;
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,

she slept.

Then by the bedside, where the faded moon
Made a dim, silver twilight soft he set

A table, and, half anguished, threw thereon
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet :—
O for some drowsy morphean amulet !
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion,
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet,
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone :-
The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.

And still she slept an azure lidded sleep,
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavendered;
While he from forth the closet brought a heap
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd ;
With jellies soother than the creamy curd,
And lucent syrups, tinct with cinamon;
Manna and dates, in argosy transferred
From Fez; and spicéd dainties, every one,

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon;

These delicates he heaped with glowing hand
On golden dishes and in baskets bright
Of wreathed silver. Sumptuous they stand
In the retired quiet of the night,