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With queenly motions of a bridal mood,

Through the wide spaces of infinitude.

ELLIS GRAY.

SUNSHINE.

I SAT in a darkened chamber, Near by sang a tiny bird;

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All rayed and crowned, I miss

Through all my deep pain and sad- No queenly state until the summer

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That shall give the play of blending lights

From the porphyry rock on the pool below?

Or the bird-shadow traced on the sunlit heights

Of golden rose and snow ?

You say 'tis a fact that the books exist,

Printed and published in Mudie's list,

Some in two volumes, and some in

one

Autobiographies plenty. But look!
I will tell you what is done
By the writers, confidentially!
They cut little pieces out of their
lives

And join them together,
Making them up as a readable book,
And call it an autobiography,
Though little enough of the life sur-
vives.

What if we went in the sweet May weather

To a wood that I know which hangs on a hill,

sings the flowers to sleep at night,

And calls them again with the earliest light.

Under the delicate flush of green.
Hardly shading the bank below,
Pale anemones peep between

The mossy stumps where the
violets grow

Wide clouds of bluebells stretch away,

And primrose constellations rise,—
Turn where we may,

Some new loveliness meets our

eyes.

The first white butterflies flit around, Bees are murmuring close to the ground,

The cuckoo's happy shout is heard.
Hark again!

Was it echo, or was it bird?
All the air is full of song,
A carolling chorus around and above:
From the wood-pigeon's call so soft
and long,

To merriest twitter and marvellous trill,

Every one sings at his own sweet will,

True to the key-note of joyous love.

Well, it is lovely! is it not? But we must not stay on the fairy spot,

So we gather a nosegay with care: A primrose here and a bluebell there,

And something that we have never seen,

Probably therefore a specimen

rare; Stitchwort, with stem of transparent green,

The white-veined woodsorrel, and a spray

Of tender-leaved and budding May. We carry home the fragrant load, In a close, warm hand, by a dusty road;

The sun grows hotter every hour; Already the woodsorrel pines for the shade;

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Then the anemones, can they survive?

Even now they are hardly alive.
Ha! where is it, our unknown spray?
Dropped on the way!
Perhaps we shall never find one
again.

At last we come in with the few that are left,

Of freshness and fragrance bereft;
A sorry display.
Now, do we say,

"Here is the wood where we rambled to-day?

See, we have brought it to you;
Believe us, indeed it is true.

This is the wood!" do we say?

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Dying in darkness, with none to see. The rotting trunk of a willow tree, Leafless, ready to fall from the bank; A poisonous fungus, cold and white, And a hemlock growing strong and rank.

A tuft of fur and a ruddy stain, Where a wounded hare has escaped the snare,

Only perhaps to be caught again.
No specimens we bring of these,
Lest they should disturb our ease,
And spoil the story of the May,
And make you think our holiday
Was far less pleasant than we say.

Ah no! We write our lives indeed,
But in a cipher none can read,
Except the author.
He may pore
The life-accumulating lore
For evermore,
And find the records strange and
true,

Bring wisdom old and new;
But though he break the seal,
No power has he to give the key;
No license to reveal.

We wait the all-declaring day,
When love shall know as it is
known.

Till then, the secrets of our lives are ours and God's alone.

SONG FROM "RIGHT." LIGHT after darkness, Gain after loss, Strength after suffering, Crown after cross. Sweet after bitter,

Song after sigh, Home after wandering, Praise after cry.

Sheaves after sowing,
Sun after rain,
Sigh after mystery,
Peace after pain.
Joy after sorrow,

Calm after blast,
Rest after weariness,
Sweet rest at last.

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