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Yet could I almost be content

To lose here at your feet

A year or two, you murmuring elm,
To dream a dream so sweet.

EDWARD Dowden.

[By kind permission of the author.]

A WISH.

To the south of the church, and beneath yonder yew,

A pair of child-lovers I've seen;

More than once were they there, and the years of the two When united, might number thirteen.

They sat by a grave that had never a stone
The name of the dead to determine;

It was Life paying Death a brief visit,―a known
And a notable text for a sermon.

They tenderly prattled; oh what did they say?
The turf on that hillock was new.

Little friends, could ye know aught of death or decay?
Could the dead be regardful of you?

I wish to believe, and believe it I must,
That there her loved father was laid;
I wish to believe-I will take it on trust-
That father knew all that they said.

My own, you are five, very nearly the age
Of that poor little fatherless child,

And some day a true-love your heart will engage,
When on earth I my last may have smiled.

Then come to my grave, like a good little lass,
Where'er it may happen to be;

And if any daisies should peer through the grass,
Be sure they are kisses from me.

And place not a stone to distinguish my name,
For stranger and gossip to see;

But come with your lover, as these lovers came,
And talk to him sweetly of me.

And while you are smiling, your father will smile
Such a dear little daughter to have;

But mind, oh yes, mind you are happy the while—

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I wish you to visit my grave.

FREDERICK LOCKER.

[From "London Lyrics."-By kind permission of the author.]

HALLY'S FLOWER.

I am the soft blue flower that, willow-shaded,

In Hally's garden grew:

Once loved and fair, but now forlorn and faded-
And Hally is faded too.

For one sweet morn in May (or April, maybe),
Weaned by the wind's caress,

I raised mine eyes and saw the bright boy-baby,
Dress'd in his morning dress.

Methinks I see him now in golden fancy,
When thro' the wild broad lea

He passed by pink and dahlia, rose and pansy,
Until he came to me.

Then he bowed down his sweet child-lips and kiss'd me,

Called me his own flower-pet;

And when he past, I saw his pure heart missed me,

For his blue eyes were wet.

So every day, for three sweet mornings after,
Down the soft path he came,

And kissing me, with smiles and baby-laughter,
Called me a pretty name.

Then dark rain fell, thick, fast, and ever faster—
A sad and cheerless rain;

And then in grief I cried for my boy-master--
I cried, but cried in vain.

No sunbeam thro' those clouds could eye discover,

And each song-bird was dumb:

And then in grief I cried for my boy-lover,

But still he did not come.

Then some soft hand, from thence in anguish taking My shower-besprinkled bloom,

When dews, like tears, upon my leaves were breaking, Brought me to Hally's room.

There on the bed my bright boy-lord was sleeping,
But ah, how changed his look!

His face was white as the tube-rose that weeping
Wanes by the garden-brook.

Then he turned round, and waking feebly, slowly,
With all his weak child-power,

Clasp'd me to his pale breast, and whispered lowly,
"My flower, my pretty flower!"

E

He held me all that day, but I was fading,

And Hally was fading too :

And his blue eyes were dim, for night was shading
Their native heavenly blue.

For that same night, upon the bed together,

Two faded flowerets lay:

The one to bloom no more upon the heather,
And one to bloom for aye.

For Hally, my boy-master, had not faded
There in the cruel storm,

But lived, yea brightly still, for death had shaded
Only the frail pale form.

The tender white camellia and pink pansy

Told me the self-same day

They heard him singing still-it was not fancy-
Though faint and far away.

And for his sake his baby friends still love me,

And once, in tears and slow,

They wrote "Dear Hally's pretty flower" above me, But that was long ago.

For I am dark and faded now.

After the starless rain,

I wonder,

If he will raise the sod he sleepeth under,

And kiss me once again.

SAMUEL K. COWAN.

[By kind permission of the author.]

THE BOAT-RACE.

"There, win the cup, and you shall have my girl.
I won it, Ned; and you shall win it too,

Or wait a twelvemonth. Books-for ever books!
Nothing but talk of poets and their rhymes!

I'd have you, boy, a man, with thews and strength
To breast the world with, and to cleave your way,
No maudlin dreamer, that will need her care,

She needing yours. There-there-I love you, Ned,
Both for your own, and for your mother's sake;
So win our boat-race, and the cup, next month,
And you shall have her." With a broad, loud laugh,
A jolly triumph at his rare conceit,

He left the subject; and, across the wine,
We talked--or rather, all the talk was his-
Of the best oarsmen that his youth had known,
Both of his set, and others-Clare, the boast
Of Jesus', and young Edmonds, he who fell,
Cleaving the ranks at Lucknow; and, to-day,
There was young Chester might be named with them,
"Why, boy, I'm told his room is lit with cups
Won by his sculls. Ned, if he rows, he wins ;
Small chance for you, boy!" And again his laugh,
With its broad thunder, turn'd my thoughts to gall;
But yet I mask'd my humour with a mirth
Moulded on his; and, feigning haste, I went,
But left not. Through the garden porch I turned,
But, on its sun-fleck'd seats, its jessamine shades
Trembled on no one. Down the garden's paths
Wander'd my eye, in rapid quest of one
Sweeter than all its roses, and across
Its gleaming lilies and its azure bells,

There in the orchard's greenness, down beyond

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