Puslapio vaizdai
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How not? She loved, may be, perfume,
Soft textures, lace, a half-lit room ;
Perchance too candidly preferred
“Clarissa” to a gossip's word ;-
And, for the rest, would seem to be
Or proud, or dull—this Dorothy.

Poor child !-with heart the down-lined nest
Of warmest instincts unconfest,
Soft, callow things that vaguely felt
The breeze caress, the sunlight melt,
But yet, by some obscure decree
Unwinged from birth ;-poor Dorothy!

Not less I dream her mute desire
To acred churl and booby squire,
Now pale, with timorous eyes that filled
At “twice-told tales” of foxes killed ;-
Now trembling when slow tongues grew free
'Twixt sport, and Port-and Dorothy !

'Twas then she'd seek this nook, and find
Its evening landscape balmy-kind;
And here, where still her gentle name
Lives on the old green glass, would frame
Fond dreams of unfound harmony
'Twixt heart and heart. Poor Dorothy !

L'ENVOI. These last I spoke. Then Florence said, Below me,-"Dreams ? Delusions, Fred !" Next, with a pause,—she bent the while Over a rose, with roguish smile“ But how disgusted, sir, you 'll be To hear I scrawled that ‘Dorothy.""

AVICE.

On serait tenté de lui dire, Bonjour, Mademoiselle la Bergeron

nette."-VICTOR HUGO.

THOUGI

'HOUGH the voice of modern schools

Has demurred,
By the dreamy Asian creed

'Tis averred,
That the souls of men, released
From their bodies when deceased,
Sometimes enter in a beast,-

Or a bird.

I have watched you long, Avice,

Watched you so,
I have found your secret out;

And I know
That the restless ribboned things,
Where your slope of shoulder springs,
Are but undeveloped wings

That will grow.

When you enter in a room,

It is stirred

With the wayward, flashing flight

Of a bird ;
And you speak—and bring with you
Leaf and sun-ray, bud and blue,
And the wind-breath and the dew,

At a word.

When you called to me my name,

Then again
When I heard your single cry

In the lane,
All the sound was as the "sweet"
Which the birds to birds repeat
In their thank-song to the heat

After rain.

When you sang the Schwalbenlied,

'Twas absurd, But it seemed no human note

That I heard ; For your strain had all the trills, All the little shakes and stills, Of the over-song that rills

From a bird.

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You have just their eager, quick

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All their flush and fever-heat

When elate; Every bird-like nod and beck, And a bird's own curve of neck When she gives a little peck

To her mate.

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When you left me, only now,

In that furred, Puffed, and feathered Polish dress,

I was spurred Just to catch you, O my Sweet, By the bodice trim and neat, Just to feel your heart a-beat,

Like a bird.

Yet, alas! Love's light you deign

But to wear
As the dew upon your plumes,

And you care
Not a whit for rest or hush ;
But the leaves, the lyric gush,
And the wing-power, and the rush

Of the air.

So I dare not woo you, Sweet,

For a day,

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