Days.

AUGHTERS of Time, the hypocritic Days,

DA

Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,

And marching single in an endless file,

Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.

To each they offer gifts after his will,

Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all.
I, in my pleachèd garden, watched the pomp,
Forgot my morning wishes, hastily

Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day
Turned and departed silent. I, too late,
Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.

R. W. EMERSON.

SONG.

Song.'

You know the old Hidalgo
(His box is next to ours),

Who threw the Prima Donna
The wreath of orange-flowers;
He owns the half of Aragon,
With mines beyond the main;

A very ancient nobleman,

And gentleman of Spain.

They swear that I must wed him,

In spite of yea or nay,

Though uglier than the Scaramouch,
The spectre in the play;

But I will sooner die a maid
Than wear a gilded chain,

For all the ancient noblemen
And gentlemen of Spain !

R. H. STODDARD.

1 From "The Poems of R. H. Stoddard," copyright, 1880, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

Aladdín.

WHEN I was a beggarly boy,

And lived in a cellar damp,

I had not a friend nor a toy,
But I had Aladdin's lamp;
When I could not sleep for cold,
I had fire enough in my brain,
And builded, with roofs of gold,
My beautiful castles in Spain !

Since then I have toiled day and night,
I have money and power good store,
But I'd give all my lamps of silver bright,
For the one that is mine no more;
Take, Fortune, whatever you choose, -
You gave, and may snatch again;
I have nothing 'twould pain me to lose,
For I own no more castles in Spain!

J. R. LOWELL.

THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH.

The Flight of Youth."

THERE
`HERE are gains for all our losses,

There are balms for all our pain;
But when youth, the dream, departs,
It takes something from our hearts,
And it never comes again.

We are stronger, and are better,
Under manhood's sterner reign;
Still, we feel that something sweet
Followed youth, with flying feet,
And will never come again.

Something beautiful is vanished,
And we sigh for it in vain;
We behold it everywhere,
On the earth, and in the air,

But it never comes again.

R. H. STODDARD.

From "The Poems of R. H. Stoddard," copyright, 1880, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

THE

Me playmate.

HE pines were dark on Ramoth hill,
Their song was soft and low;

The blossoms in the sweet May wind
Were falling like the snow.

The blossoms drifted at our feet,
The orchard birds sang clear;
The sweetest and the saddest day
It seemed of all the year.

For, more to me than birds or flowers, My playmate left her home,

And took with her the laughing spring, The music and the bloom.

She kissed the lips of kith and kin,
She laid her hand in mine:
What more could ask the bashful boy
Who fed her father's kine?

She left us in the bloom of May:
The constant years told o'er

Their seasons with as sweet May morns,
But she came back no more.