“'T was Henry, Sixth, pronounced the charm, (A glass cup was the token),

In Muncaster good luck shall reign
Till this charmed cup is broken.'
A hundred years the charm hath held
Its power beyond undoing;
Good luck attends Muncaster lords
In battle and in wooing."

"And this the luck of Muncaster?"
Said the rejected lover.

"The charm hath stood a hundred years, It shall not stand another.

་་

"But one in casket oaken

I fain would save from plundering hand
Untarnished and unbroken.

"Go thou and bring the gem I prize;
Thou art no foe or stranger,
Else why hast rode this weary way,
To warn me of my danger?"
And ere the bat had winged its flight
Across night's sable curtain,

The dark browed knight of Liddersdale
Had done the message certain.

"Now, by my ladie's lips, I swear,
Thy friendship is amazing,
Cried gay Sir John, of Muncaster,
Into the dark face gazing.

"Swear not by lips of her you love,

You never more shall press them;
Bright are the locks of Margaret's hair,
No more shalt thou caress them,"

Exclaimed the fiery Scot in glee.
"I hold the precious token,

That binds good luck to thee and thine-
That charmed spell shall be broken.
Behold! I dash it to the earth,

In vain thy deepest regret ;
Douglass shall win thy palace tower,
And I the lady Marg'ret."

The traitor fled. Sir John sank down
Beside the casket oaken.

Oh, miracle! the crystal cup

Lay there unharmed, unbroken.
Two thousand soldiers came in time
To stay the Douglass slaughter,
And gay Sir John was married to

Fair Margaret, Lowther's daughter.

Miss Hartwick was married in 1871, to Edmund C. Thorpe, and soon went to reside in Fremont, Ind., where she has lived since, until lately returning to Litchfield. Domestic cares have left her small opportunity for composition, and little from her pen has of late appeared in print, save the wandering waif so universally read.

She has made a collection of her poems, with a view to early publication in book form. From the few at our hand we will give only one more entitled

WAITING.

When the dusky shadows o'er the earth are spread,
Nestling 'mid the pillows of her trundle bed,
Peering through the darkness, roguish little Miss,
Waiting in the twilight for a mother's kiss.

Pretty, thoughtful maiden, dreaming dreams of love,
Gazing at the spangled, moonlit sky above;
Looking down the pathway with an anxious eye,
Waiting for her lover, coming by-and-by.

When the golden sunbeams slant across the floor,
Stately little woman standing in the door,
Making a sweet picture in her tidy dress,
Waiting for her husband and a fond caress.

Weary, anxious mother, years of toil and care
Threading lines of silver in her sunny hair:
Breezes kiss her forehead, balmy, soft and cool,
Waiting for the children coming home from school.

By the shady window in her easy chair,
With the sunlight resting on her snowy hair,
Grandmother is waiting in the dear old home,
Waiting till the Master gently bids her come.

Waiting for her loved ones, this is woman's lot,
In the stately palace or the lowly cot,

And when death shall claim her she will go before,
And await their coming on the other shore.

Mrs. Thorpe is tall and slender, has dark brown. eyes, and hair to match. She lives more in the future than the past; and has the hopefulness of a poet, blent with much of a poet's sensitive disposition. In writing, she sympathizes intensely with her theme, and is often carried forward resistlessly, without due heed to finish of versification and accuracy of rhyme. But however much or carefully she may write in future, she can hardly produce anything which shall win the popularity her earliest ballad has achieved.