The soft breath stealing visible and clear,
And mixing with the moon's, whose frosty gleam
Made round her rest a vaporous light of dream.

How free she wandered in the wicked place, Protected only by her gentle face!

see?

She heard of wantonness and misery;

The city closed around her night and day,
But lightly, happily, she went her way.
Nothing of evil that she saw or heard
Could touch a heart so innocently stirred,
By simple hopes that cheered it through the storm,
And little flutterings that kept it warm.
No power had she to reason out her needs,
To give the whence and wherefore of her deeds;
But she was good and pure amid the strife,
By virtue of the joy that was her life.
Here, where a thousand spirits daily fall,
Where heart and soul and senses turn to gall,
She floated, pure as innocent could be,
Like a small sea-bird on a stormy sea,
Which breasts the billows, wafted to and fro,
Fearless, uninjured, while the strong winds blow,
While the clouds gather, and the waters roar,
And mighty ships are broken on the shore.

'T was when the spring was coming, when the

snow

Had melted, and fresh winds began to blow,
And girls were selling violets in the town,
That suddenly a fever struck me down.
The world was changed, the sense of life was pained,
And nothing but a shadow-land remained;
Death came in a dark mist and looked at me,
I felt his breathing, though I could not see,
But heavily I lay and did not stir,
And had strange images and dreams of her.
Then came a vacancy: with feeble breath,
I shivered under the cold touch of Death,
And swooned among strange visions of the dead,
When a voice called from heaven, and he fled;
And suddenly I wakened, as it seemed,
From a deep sleep wherein I had not dreamed.
And it was night, and I could see and hear,
And I was in the room I held so dear,
And unaware, stretched out upon my bed,
I hearkened for a footstep overhead.

But all was hushed. I looked around the room, And slowly made out shapes amid the gloom. The wall was reddened by a rosy light,

A faint fire flickered, and I knew 't was night,
Because below there was a sound of feet
Dying away along the quiet street,
When, turning my pale face and sighing low,
I saw a vision in the quiet glow :

And tinting her white neck to rosy red,
Her features bright, and beautiful, and pure,
With childish fear and yearning half demure.

O sweet, sweet dream! I thought, and strained mine eyes,

Fearing to break the spell with words and sighs.

Softly she stooped, her dear face sweetly fair, And sweeter since a light like love was there, Brightening, watching, more and more elate, As the nuts glowed together in the grate, Crackling with little jets of fiery light, Till side by side they turned to ashes white, Then up she leapt, her face cast off its fear For rapture that itself was radiance clear, And would have clapped her little hands in glee, But, pausing, bit her lips and peeped at me, And met the face that yearned on her so whitely, And gave a cry and trembled, blushing brightly, While, raised on elbow, as she turned to flee, "Polly!" I cried, and grew as red as she !

It was no dream! for soon my thoughts were clear,

And she could tell me all, and I could hear:
How in my sickness friendless I had lain,
How the hard people pitied not my pain;
How, in despite of what bad people said,
She left her labors, stopped beside my bed,
And nursed me, thinking sadly I would die ;
How, in the end, the danger passed me by ;
How she had sought to steal away before
The sickness passed, and I was strong once more.
By fits she told the story in mine ear,
And troubled all the telling with a fear
Lest by my cold man's heart she should be chid,
Lest I should think her bold in what she did;
But, lying on my bed, I dared to say,
How I had watched and loved her many a day,
How dear she was to me, and dearer still
For that strange kindness done while I was ill,
And how I could but think that Heaven above
Had done it all to bind our lives in love.
And Polly cried, turning her face away,
And seemed afraid, and answered "yea" nor
“nay”;

Then stealing close, with little pants and sighs,
Looked on my pale thin face and earnest eyes,
And seemed in act to fling her arms about
My neck, then, blushing, paused, in fluttering
doubt,

That I might feel how gladly hers was throbbing!

Ah! ne'er shall I forget until I die
How happily the dreamy days went by,
While I grew well, and lay with soft heart-beats,
Heark'ning the pleasant murmur from the streets,
And Polly by me like a sunny beam,
And life all changed, and love a drowsy dream!
'T was happiness enough to lie and see
The little golden head bent droopingly
Over its sewing, while the still time flew,
And my fond eyes were dim with happy dew!
And then, when I was nearly well and strong,
And she went back to labor all day long,
How sweet to lie alone with half-shut eyes,
And hear the distant murmurs and the cries,
And think how pure she was from pain and
sin,

And how the summer days were coming in!
Then, as the sunset faded from the room,
To listen for her footstep in the gloom,
To pant as it came stealing up the stair,
To feel my whole life brighten unaware
When the soft tap came to the door, and when
The door was opened for her smile again!
Best, the long evenings!—when, till late at night,
She sat beside me in the quiet light,
And happy things were said and kisses won,
And serious gladness found its vent in fun.
Sometimes I would draw close her shining head,
And pour her bright hair out upon the bed,
And she would laugh, and blush, and try to scold,
While "Here," I cried, "I count my wealth in
gold!"

Once, like a little sinner for transgression,
She blushed upon my breast, and made confession :
How, when that night I woke and looked around,
I found her busy with a charm profound,
One chestnut was herself, my girl confessed,
The other was the person she loved best,
And if they burned together side by side,
He loved her, and she would become his bride;
And burn indeed they did, to her delight,
And had the pretty charm not proven right?
Thus much, and more, with timorous joy, she
said,

While her confessor, too, grew rosy red,
And close together pressed two blissful faces,
As I absolved the sinner, with embraces.

And here is winter come again, winds blow,
The houses and the streets are white with snow;
And in the long and pleasant eventide,
Why, what is Polly making at my side?
What but a silk gown, beautiful and grand,
We bought together lately in the Strand!

Her tiny foot and little boot upon it,
Embroidered petticoat and silk gown new,
And shawl she wears as few fine ladies do?
And she will keep, to charm away all ill,
The lucky sixpence in her pocket still;
And we will turn, come fair or cloudy weather,
To ashes, like the chestnuts, close together!

ROBERT BUCHANAN.

WIDOW MALONE.

DID you
hear of the Widow Malone,
Ohone!
Who lived in the town of Athlone,
Alone !

O, she melted the hearts
Of the swains in them parts :
So lovely the Widow Malone,

Ohone !

So lovely the Widow Malone.
Of lovers she had a full score,
Or more,
And fortunes they all had galore,
In store;

From the minister down
To the clerk of the Crown
All were courting the Widow Malone,
Ohone !
All were courting the Widow Malone.
But so modest was Mistress Malone,
'T was known
That no one could see her alone,
Ohone !

Let them ogle and sigh,
They could ne'er catch her ey
So bashful the Widow Malone,
Ohone !

So bashful the Widow Malone.
Till one Misther O'Brien, from Clare,
(How quare!

It's little for blushing they care

Down there.)

But, "Lucius," says she, "Since you 've now made so free, You may marry your Mary Malone, Ohone !

You may marry your Mary Malone."

There's a moral contained in my song,
Not wrong;

And one comfort, it's not very long,
But strong,

If for widows you die,

Learn to kiss, not to sigh;

"Git oot wid the', Jwohnny!- - thou 's tewt me reet sair ;

Thou's brocken my comb, an' thou's toozelt my hair.

I will n't be kisst, thou unmannerly loot!
Was t'ere iver sec impidence? Jwohnny, git oot!

"Git oot wid the', Jwohnny! - I tell the' be deùn :

Does t'é think I'll tak' up wid Ann Dixon's oald sheùn ?

Thou ma' ga' till Ann Dixon, an' pu' her aboot;

--

oot!"

Maggie coost her head fu' high,
Looked asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh-
Ha, ha the wooing o't!
Duncan fleeched and Duncan prayed-
Ha, ha the wooing o't!

Meg was deaf as Ailsa craig

Ha, ha! the wooing o't! Duncan sighed baith out and in, Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn —

Ha, ha! the wooing o't!
Time and chance are but a tide-
Ha, ha! the wooing o't!
Slighted love is sair to bide-

Ha, ha the wooing o't!
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie dee?

She may gae to - France for me!
Ha, ha the wooing o't!

How it comes let doctors tell

Ha, ha! the wooing o't! Meg grew sick as he grew healHa, ha the wooing o't! Something in her bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she brings; And O, her een they speak sic things! Ha, ha the wooing o't!

Scattered over mosaic floors

Are anemones, myrtles, and violets;
And a musical fountain throws its jets
Of a hundred colors into the air.
The dark sultana loosens her hair,
And stains with the henna plant the tips
Of her pearly nails, and bites her lips
Till they bloom again; but alas, that rose
Not for the Sultan buds and blows!

Not for the Sultan Shah-Zaman
When he goes to the city Ispahan.

Then at a wave of her sunny hand,
The dancing girls of Samarcand
Float in like mists from Fairy-land!
And to the low voluptuous swoons
Of music, rise and fall the moons
Of their full brown bosoms. Orient blood
Runs in their veins, shines in their eyes;
And there in this Eastern paradise,
Filled with the fumes of sandal-wood,
And Khoten musk, and aloes, and myrrh,
Sits Rose in Bloom on a silk divan,
Sipping the wines of Astrackhan;
And her Arab lover sits with her.
That's when the Sultan Shah-Zaman
Goes to the city Ispahan.

Now, when I see an extra light
Flaming, flickering on the night,
From my neighbor's casement opposite,

I know as well as I know to pray,

I know as well as a tongue can say,
That the innocent Sultan Shah-Zaman
Has gone to the city Ispahan.

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

BONNIE WEE THING.

BONNIE wee thing! cannie wee thing! Lovely wee thing! wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom,

Lest my jewel I should tine. Wishfully I look, and languish,

In that bonnie face o' thine;
And my heart it stounds wi' anguish,
Lest my wee thing be na mine.

Wit and grace, and love and beauty,
In ae constellation shine;
To adore thee is my duty,

Goddess o' this soul o' mine!
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing,
Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine,
I wad wear thee in my bosom,
Lest my jewel I should tine.

ROBERT BURNS.

THE LUTE-PLAYER.

66
FROM HASSAN BEN KHALED."

"MUSIC!' they shouted, echoing my demand,
And answered with a beckon of his hand
The gracious host, whereat a maiden, fair
As the last star that leaves the morning air,
Came down the leafy paths. Her veil revealed
The beauty of her face, which, half concealed
Behind its thin blue folds, showed like the moon
Behind a cloud that will forsake it soon.
Her hair was braided darkness, but the glance
Of lightning eyes shot from her countenance,
And showed her neck, that like an ivory tower
Rose o'er the twin domes of her marble breast.
Were all the beauty of this age compressed
Into one form, she would transcend its power.
Her step was lighter than the young gazelle's,
And as she walked, her anklet's golden bells
Tinkled with pleasure, but were quickly mute
With jealousy, as from a case she drew
With snowy hands the pieces of her lute,
And took her seat before me.
As it grew
To perfect shape, her lovely arms she bent
Around the neck of the sweet instrument,
Till from her soft caresses it awoke
To consciousness, and thus its rapture spoke :
'I was a tree within an Indian vale,
When first I heard the love-sick nightingale
Declare his passion; every leaf was stirred
With the melodious sorrow of the bird,
And when he ceased, the song remained with me.
Men came anon, and felled the harmless tree,
But from the memory of the songs I heard,
The spoiler saved me from the destiny
Whereby my brethren perished. O'er the sea
I came, and from its loud, tumultuous moan
I caught a soft and solemn undertone;
And when I grew beneath the maker's hand
To what thou seest, he sang (the while he planned)
The mirthful measures of a careless heart,
And of my soul his songs became a part.
Now they have laid my head upon a breast
Whiter than marble, I am wholly blest.
The fair hands smite me, and my strings com.
plain

With such melodious cries, they smite again,
Until, with passion and with sorrow swayed,
My torment moves the bosom of the maid,
Who hears it speak her own. I am the voice
Whereby the lovers languish or rejoice;
And they caress me, knowing that my strain
Alone can speak the language of their pain.'

"Here ceased the fingers of the maid to stray Over the strings; the sweet song died away In mellow, drowsy murmurs, and the lute Leaned on her fairest bosom, and was mute.