Past compare and loveliest,
He but judged thee as the rest.

Could we blame him with grave words,
Thou and I, dear, if we might?
Thy brown eyes have looks like birds
Flying straightway to the light:
Mine are older. Hush!-look out-
Up the street! is none without?
How the poplar swings about!

And that hour-beneath the beech,
When I listened in a dream,
And he said, in his deep speech,
That he owed me all esteem—
Each word swam in on my brain
With a dim, dilating pain,

Till it burst with that last strain.

I fell flooded with a dark,

In the silence of a swoon.

When I rose, still cold and stark, There was night; I saw the moon; And the stars, each in its place, And the May-blooms on the grass, Seemed to wonder what I was.

And I answer'd coldly, too,
When you met me at the door;
And I only heard the dew

Dripping from me to the floor;
And the flowers I bade you see,
Were too wither'd for the bee→→
As my life, henceforth, for me.

Do not weep so, dear, heart-warm!

All was best as it befell.

If I say he did me harm,

I speak wild-I am not well;
All his words were kind and good.
He esteem'd me. Only, blood
Runs so faint in womanhood!

Then I always was too grave—
Like the saddest ballad sung—
With that look, besides, we have
In our faces who die
young.
I had died, dear, all the same;
Life's long, joyous, jostling game
Is too loud for my meek shame.

We are so unlike each other,

Thou and I, that none could guess
We were children of one mother,
But for mutual tenderness.
Thou art rose-lined from the cold,
And meant verily to hold
Life's pure pleasures manifold;

I am pale; as crocus grows

Close beside a rose-tree's root:
Whosoe'er would reach the rose,
Treads the crocus under foot.
I, like May-bloom on thorn-tree,
Thou, like merry Summer bee-
Fit that I be pluck'd for thee!

Yet who plucks me? No one mourns; I have lived my season out,

And now die of my own thorns Which I could not live without. Sweet, be merry! How the light Comes and goes! If it be night, Keep the candles in my sight.

Are there footsteps at the door?
Look out quickly. Yea or nay?
Some one might be waiting for

Some last word that I might say.
Nay? So best! So angels would
Stand off clear from deathly road,
Not to cross the sight of God.

Colder grow my hands and feet.

When I wear the shroud I made,
Let the folds lie straight and neat,
And the rosemary be spread,
any friend should come,
To see thee, sweet! all the room
May be lifted out of gloom.

That if

And, dear Bertha, let me keep
On my hand this little ring,
Which at nights, when others sleep,
I can still see glittering.

Let me wear it out of sight,

In the grave, where it will light
All the dark up, day and night.

On that grave drop not a tear!
Else, though fathom-deep the place,
Through the woolen shroud I wear

I shall feel it on my face.
Rather smile there, blessed one,
Thinking of me in the sun,
Or forget me smiling on!

Art thou near me? Nearer! so,
Kiss me close upon the eyes,
That the earthly light may go
Sweetly, as it used to rise

When I watched the morning gray
Strike, betwixt the hills, the way
He was sure to come that day.

So, no more vain words be said!
The hosannas nearer roll.
Mother, smile now on thy dead,
I am death-strong in my soul.
Mystic Dove alit on cross,
Guide the poor bird of the snows
Through the snow-wind, above loss!

Jesus, Victim, comprehending

Love's divine self-abnegation, Cleanse my love in its self-spending, And absorb the poor libation! Wind my thread of life up higher, Up, through angels' hands of fire! I aspire while I expire.

MRS. BROWNING.

MRS. WARD'S VISIT TO THE PRINCE.
Adapted by Miss Esther N. Wilson.

WALL, now, Miss Pettengill, I s'pose you've come

over to hear about my seein' the Prince! You see, I'd been readin' all about the great doin's in the Statesman, and last week, a Tuesday mornin', I was over to son 'Bijah's, and found he was a goin' down to Bostin Wednesday to buy up his winter goods, and to see the Prince, too-goin' to kill two birds with one stone, you know; so, sez I, “Now, ' Bijah, I've been wantin' to go down to see niece Ruthy Ann-she's settled there, married to Mr. Wetherell, a rale fust-rate man, too—and I've a great mind to jest start off with you, and see the great sight for once myself." Wall, upon that, Martha she j'ined in, and 'Bijah said p'r'aps I'd better improve the chance. So I jest made up my mind on the spot, and purty soon started off for home to tell Arty how to look after things while I was gone. I don't go abroad very often, you know, Miss Pettengill, and sech an undertaken's consid'able.

But, arter all, it's something to see a real live young man that's goin' to be King of England arter his mother Victory's done wearing the crown; and you can tell on it to children and your children's children all the rest of your life.

your

You see, it was about half arter eight o'clock in the mornin', and I jest thought I'd do what I meant to all along-go and hev my little visit to see the Prince. I hadn't sed ennything about it to ' Bijah and the rest, but I had'nt gin it up. I tell you, Miss Pettengill, I'd gone all the way to Bostin a purpose to see Queen Victory's son, and I did'nt mean to come back to Bosc'wine