And down the dusty highway
They vanished and were gone.
Years passed, and many a traveller
Paused at the old inn-door,
But the little milk-white pony

And the child returned no more.

Years passed, the apple-branches
A deeper shadow shed;

And many a time the Judas Tree,
Blossom and leaf, lay dead;
When on the loitering western breeze
Came the bells' merry sound,
And flowery arches rose, and flags
And banners waved around.

Maurice stood there expectant:
The bridal train would stay
Some moments at the inn-door,
The eager watchers say ;

They come the cloud of dust draws near'Mid all the state and pride,

He only sees the golden hair
And blue eyes of the bride.

The same, yet, ah, still fairer;
He knew the face once more
That bent above the pony's neck
Years past at that inn-door :

Her shy and smiling eyes looked round,
Unconscious of the place,
Unconscious of the eager gaze
He fixed upon her face.

He plucked a blossom from the tree-
The Judas Tree-and cast

Its purple fragrance towards the Bride, A message from the Past.

The signal came, the horses plungedOnce more she smiled around:

The purple blossom in the dust

Lay trampled on the ground.

Again the slow years fleeted,
Their passage only known
By the height the Passion-flower
Around the porch had grown;
And many a passing traveller
Paused at the old inn-door,

But the bride, so fair and blooming,
The bride returned no more.

One winter morning, Maurice,
Watching the branches bare,
Rustling and waving dimly

In the grey and misty air,

Saw blazoned on a carriage

Once more the well-known shield,

The stars and azure fleurs-de-lis

Upon a silver field.

He looked-was that pale woman,
So grave, so worn, so sad,
The child, once young and smiling,
The bride, once fair and glad?
What grief had dimmed that glory,
And brought that dark eclipse
Upon her blue eyes' radiance,
And paled those trembling lips?

What memory of past sorrow,
What stab of present pain,
Brought that deep look of anguish,
That watched the dismal rain,
That watched (with the absent spirit
That looks, yet does not see)
The dead and leafless branches
Upon the Judas Tree.

The slow dark months crept onward

Upon their icy way,

"Till April broke in showers,

And Spring smiled forth in May;

Upon the apple-blossoms

The sun shone bright again,

When slowly up the highway

Came a long funeral train.

The bells tolled slowly, sadly,
For a noble spirit fled;

Slowly, in pomp and honour,

They bore the quiet dead. Upon a black-plumed charger

One rode, who held a shield, Where stars and azure fleurs-de-lis Shone on a silver field.

'Mid all that homage given
To a fluttering heart at rest,
Perhaps an honest sorrow

Dwelt only in one breast.
One by the inn-door standing
Watched with fast-dropping tears

The long procession passing,
And thought of bygone years.

The boyish, silent homage

To child and bride unknown, The pitying tender sorrow

Kept in his heart alone,

Now laid upon the coffin

With a purple flower, might be Told to the cold dead sleeper;The rest could only see A fragrant purple blossom, Plucked from a Judas Tree.

VOICES OF THE PAST.

OU wonder that iny tears should flow
In listening to that simple strain;

That those unskilful sounds should fill

My soul with joy and pain—

How can you tell what thoughts it stirs
Within my heart again?

You wonder why that common phrase,
So all unmeaning to your ear,
Should stay me in my merriest mood,
And thrill my soul to hear-
How can you tell what ancient charm
Has made me hold it dear?

You marvel that I turn away

From all those flowers so fair and bright, And gaze at this poor herb, till tears

Arise and dim my sight

You cannot tell how every leaf
Breathes of a past delight.

You smile to see me turn and speak

With one whose converse you despise ;

You do not see the dreams of old

That with his voice arise