Little Ellie, with her smile
Not yet ended, rose up gaily,

Tied the bonnet, donn'd the shoe,
And went homeward round a mile,
Just to see, as she did daily,

What more eggs were with the two.

Pushing thro' the elm-tree copse,
Winding up the stream, light-hearted,
Where the osier pathway leads,
Past the boughs she stoops-and stops.
Lo, the white swan had deserted!
And a rat had gnaw'd the reeds!

Ellie went home sad and slow.
If she found the lover ever,

With his red-roan steed of steeds,
Sooth I know not; but I know
She could never show him-never,
That swan's nest among the reeds!

Elizabeth B. Browning.

CCCCXXV.

PROUD word you never spoke, but you will speak Four not exempt from pride some future day. Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek Over my open volume you will say

"This man loved me!" then rise and trip away.

Walter S. Landor.

CCCCXXVI.

How many voices gaily sing,

"O happy morn, O happy spring

Of life!" meanwhile there comes o'er me

A softer voice from memory,

And says,

"If loves and hopes have flown With years, think too what griefs are gone!"

Walter S. Landor.

CCCCXXVII.

THAT out of sight is out of mind
Is true of most we leave behind;
It is not sure, nor can be true,
My own, my only love, of you.

They were my friends,-'twas sad to part;
Almost a tear began to start;

But yet as things run on they find,
That out of sight is out of mind.

For men that will not idlers be,
Must lend their hearts to things they see;
And friends who leave them far behind,
When out of sight are out of mind.

I blame it not; I think that when
The cold and silent meet again,
Kind hearts will yet as erst be kind,
'Twas "out of sight" was

out of mind."

That friends, however friends they were,
Still deal with things as things occur,
And that, excepting for the blind,
What's out of sight is out of mind.

But Love, the poets say, is blind;
So out of sight and out of mind
Need not, nor will, I think, be true,
My own, and only love, of you.

Arthur H. Clough.

CCCCXXVIII.

CLEMENTINA AND LUCILLA.

IN Clementina's artless mien
Lucilla asks me what I see,

And are the roses of sixteen
Enough for me?

Lucilla asks, if that be all,

Have I not cull'd as sweet before-
Ah, yes, Lucilla! and their fall
I still deplore.

I now behold another scene,

Where pleasure beams with heaven's own light, More pure, more constant, more serene, And not less bright.

Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose,
Whose chain of flowers no force can sever;
And Modesty, who when she goes,

Is gone for ever.

Walter S. Landor.

CCCCXXIX.

THE CASKE1.

SURE, 'tis time to have resign'd
All the dainties of the mind,
And to take a little rest

After Life's too lengthen'd feast,
Why then turn the Casket-key?
What is there within to see?
Whose is this dark twisted hair?
Whose this other, crisp and fair?
Whose the slender ring? now broken,
Undesignedly, a token,

Love said mine; and Friendship said
So I fear, and shook her head.

Walter S. Landor

CCCCXXX.

WHY REPINE?

WHY, why repine, my pensive friend,

At pleasures slipt away?

Some the stern Fates will never lend,
And all refuse to stay.

I see the rainbow in the sky,
The dew upon the grass,
I see them, and I ask not why
They glimmer or they pass.

With folded arms I linger not
To call them back; 'twere vain ;
In this, or in some other spot,
I know they'll shine again.

Walter S. Landor.

AYTON, Sir Robert (1570-1638)

I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair-XI
Woman's inconstancy-xvI.

AYTOUN, William E. (1813-1865)

The lay of the Levite-ccccxv.

BARIAM, Richard H. (1789-1845)

Lines left at Theodore Hook's house-CCCLIII
The poplar-CCCXCIII.

BARNARD, Dr., Bishop of Limerick (1727-1806)
On mending his faults-CLIII.

BAYLY, Thomas Haynes (1797-1839)

I'd be a butterfly-CCCXCVIII

A fashionable novel-CCCCIV.

BEAZLEY, Samuel (1786-1851)

When I'm dead on my tombstone I hope they will
say-CCLXVI.

BEDINGFIELD, William

BERN, Aphra (

The lover's choice-cXXXIV
Contentment-CCLXV.

-1689).

The alternative-LXVII.

BISHOP, Rev. Samuel (1731-1795)

To his wife, with a knife-cXVIII
To his wife, with a ring-CXIX.

BLANCHARD, Laman (1803-1845)

Dolce far niente CCCLXXVII.