"Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her, a harvester of hay.

"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,

"But low of cattle, and song of birds, And health, and quiet, and loving words."

And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. But he thought of his sister, proud and cold

So, closing his heart, the judge rode on,

whether

weather.

When he hummed in court an old love tuno:

Mother, mother, thou art kind,
Thou art standing in the room,—
In a molten glory shrined,

That rays off into the gloom!
But thy smile is bright and bleak,
Like cold waves-I cannot speak;
I sob in it, and grow weak.

Ghostly mother, keep aloof

One hour longer from my soul-
For I still am thinking of

Earth's warm-beating joy and dole!
On my finger is a ring
Which I still see glittering,
When the night hides every thing.

Little sister, thou art pale!

Ah, I have a wandering brain—
But I lose that fever-bale,

And my thoughts grow calm again.
Lean down closer-closer still!
I have words thine ear to fill,—
And would kiss thee at my will.

Dear, I heard thee in the spring,
Thee and Robert-through the trees,-
When we all went gathering

Boughs of May-bloom for the bees.
Do not start so! think instead
How the sunshine overhead
Seemed to trickle through the shade.

What a day it was, that day!

Hills and vales did openly Seem to heave and throb away, At the sight of the great sky; And the silence, as it stood In the glory's golden flood, Audibly did bud--and bud!

Through the winding hedgerows green,

How we wandered, I and you,—
With the bowery tops shut in,

And the gates that showed the view-
How we taiked there! thrushes soft
Sang our pauses out,- -or oft
Bleatings took them, from the croft.

Till the pleasure, grown too strong,
Left me muter evermore;
And, the winding road being long,
I walked out of sight, before;