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With woman's los are wiTe

Wrought of intenser sympat. A
And nerved by parer love.
By the strong spirit's discipline,
By the ferce wrong forgiven,
By all that wrings the heart oASE,
Is woman won to Heaven.
"Her lot is on thee" lovely ch
God keep thy spirit undefled!

I fear thy gentle loveliness,
Thy witching tone and air;
Thine eye's beseeching earnestne-s
May be to thee a snare.

The silver stars may purely sline,

The waters taintless flow,

But they who kneel at woman's shrine
Breathe on it as they bow-

Ye may fling back the gift again,

But the crushed flower will leave a stain.

What shall preserve thee, beautiful child?
Keep thee as thou art now?
Bring thee, a spirit undefiled,
At God's pure throne to bow?
The world is but a broken reed,
And life grows early dim ;
Who shall be near thee in thy need,

To lead thee up to Him?

He who himself was "undefiled,”

With him we trust thee, beautiful child!

WILLIS.

Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon,
The waters tripping with their silver feet,
The turning to the light of leaves in June,

And the light whisper as their edges meet-
Strange that they fill not, with their tranquil tone,
The spirit, walking in their midst alone.

WILLIS.

TO LAURA.

BRIGHT be the skies that cover thee,
Child of the sunny brow-

Bright as the dream flung over thee
By all that meets thee now.
Thy heart is beating joyously,
Thy voice is like a bird's,
And sweetly breaks the melody
Of thy imperfect words.

I know no fount that gushes out
As gladly as thy tiny shout.

I would that thou mightst ever be
As beautiful as now-

That time might ever leave as free
Thy yet unwritten brow.

I would life were "all poetry,"
To gentle measures set,
That nought but chastened melody,
Might stain thine eye of jet-
Nor one discordant note be spoken

Till God the cunning harp hath broken.

I would but deeper things than these
With woman's lot are wove,
Wrought of intenser sympathies,
And nerved by purer love.
By the strong spirit's discipline,
By the fierce wrong forgiven,
By all that wrings the heart of sin,
Is woman won to Heaven.

"Her lot is on thee" lovely child-
God keep thy spirit undefiled!

I fear thy gentle loveliness,
Thy witching tone and air;
Thine eye's beseeching earnestness

May be to thee a snare.

The silver stars may purely shine,

The waters taintless flow,

But they who kneel at woman's shrine
Breathe on it as they bow-

Ye may fling back the gift again,

But the crushed flower will leave a stain.

What shall preserve thee, beautiful child?
Keep thee as thou art now?

Bring thee, a spirit undefiled,

At God's pure throne to bow? The world is but a broken reed,

And life grows early dim;

Who shall be near thee in thy need,

To lead thee up to Him?

He who himself was "undefiled,"

With him we trust thee, beautiful child!

WILLIS.

THE LADY'S YES.

"YES!" I answered you last night; "No," this morning, sir, I say! Colours seen by candle-light,

Will not look the same by day.

When the tabors played their best,
Lamps above and laughs below-

Love me, sounded like a jest,
Fit for yes, or fit for no!

Call me false, or call me free-
Vow whatever light may shine,

No man on thy face shall see
Any grief for change on mine.

Yet the sin is on us both

Time to dance is not to wooWooer light makes fickle trothScorn of me recoils on you!

Learn to win a lady's faith

Nobly, as the thing is high;

Bravely, as for life and death—
With a loyal gravity.

Lead her from the festive boards,

Point her to the starry skies, Guard her, by your truthful words,

Pure from courtship's flatteries.

By your truth she shall be true

Ever true as wives of yore--
And her YES, once said to you,

Shall be YES for evermore.

BARRETT.

VICTORIA'S TEARS.

"O MAIDEN, heir of kings,
A king has left his place;

The Majesty of death has swept
All other from his face.

And thou, upon thy mother's breast,
No longer lean adown-

But take the glory for the rest,

And rule the land that loves thee best."
The maiden wept;

She wept to wear a crown.

They decked her courtly halls—

They reined her hundred steeds

They shouted at her palace gate,

"A noble Queen succeeds!"

Her name has stirred the mountains' sleep,
Her praise has filled the town:

And mourners God had stricken deep,
Looked hearkening up, and did not weep!
Alone she wept,

Who wept to wear a crown.

She saw no purple shine,

For tears had dimmed her eyes:

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