THE PRINCESS.

CHERUBIN, the page.

Tis but a child, yet with that roguish smile,

And those sly looks, the child will make hearts

ache

Not five years hence, I prophesy. Meanwhile,

He lives to plague the swans upon the lake,
To steal my comfits, and the monkey's cake.

DENISE.

And these that swim aside-who may these be?

THE PRINCESS.

Those are two gentlemen of Picardy.
Equal in blood,-of equal bravery :-

MOREUIL and MONTCORNET. They hunt in pair;
I mete them morsels with an equal care,
Lest they should eat each other,—or eat Me.

Ah me! he will not come!

He swims at large,-looks shyly on,—is dumb.
Sometimes, indeed, I think he fain would nibble,
But while he stays with doubts and fears to
quibble,

Some gilded fop, or mincing courtier-fribble,
Slips smartly in,-and gets the proffered crumb.
He should have all my crumbs-if he'd but ask ;
Nay, an he would, it were no hopeless task
To gain a something more. But though he's
brave,

He's far too proud to be a dangling slave;
And then-he's modest! So . . . he will not
come!

THE SUNDIAL

IS an old dial, dark with many a stain;

'TIS

In summer crowned with drifting orchard
bloom,

Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain,
And white in winter like a marble tomb;

And round about its gray, time-eaten brow
Lean letters speak-a worn and shattered

row:

I am a Shade: a Shadowe too arte thou :

I marke the Time: saye, Gossip, dost thou soe?

Here would the ringdoves linger, head to head; And here the snail a silver course would run, Beating old Time; and here the peacock spread His gold-green glory, shutting out the sun.

The tardy shade moved forward to the noon;
Betwixt the paths a dainty Beauty stept,

That swung a flower, and, smiling, hummed a

tune,

Before whose feet a barking spaniel leapt.

O'er her blue dress an endless blossom strayed; About her tendril-curls the sunlight shone; And round her train the tiger-lilies swayed, Like courtiers bowing till the queen be gone.

She leaned upon the slab a little while,

Then drew a jewelled pencil from her zone, Scribbled a something with a frolic smile,

Folded, inscribed, and niched it in the stone.

The shade slipped on, no swifter than the snail;
There came a second lady to the place,
Dove-eyed, dove-robed, and something wan and
pale-

An inner beauty shining from her face.

She, as if listless with a lonely love,

Straying among the alleys with a book,Herrick or Herbert,-watched the circling dove, And spied the tiny letter in the nook.

Then, like to one who confirmation found

Of some dread secret half-accounted true,Who knew what hands and hearts the letter bound,

And argued loving commerce 'twixt the two,—

She bent her fair young forehead on the stone; The dark shade gloomed an instant on her head;

And 'twixt her taper-fingers pearled and shone The single tear that tear-worn eyes will shed.

The shade slipped onward to the falling gloom; There came a soldier gallant in her stead, Swinging a beaver with a swaling plume,

A ribboned love-lock rippling from his head;

Blue-eyed, frank-faced, with clear and open brow, Scar-seamed a little, as the women love;

So kindly fronted that you marvel how

The frequent sword-hilt had so frayed his glove;

Who switched at Psyche plunging in the sun; Uncrowned three lilies with a backward swinge And standing somewhat widely, like to one

More used to "Boot and Saddle" than to cringe

As courtiers do, but gentleman withal,

Took out the note; held it as one who feared The fragile thing he held would slip and fall; Read and re-read, pulling his tawny beard;

Kissed it, I think, and hid it in his breast;
Laughed softly in a flattered happy way,
Arranged the broidered baldrick on his chest,
And sauntered past, singing a roundelay.

The shade crept forward through the dying glow; There came no more nor dame nor cavalier; But for a little time the brass will show

A small gray spot-the record of a tear.