Like her bows,

She in garret sits and sews

Furbelows

Till her weary eyelids close
In the peace of death's repose:
Is she reaping what she sows?
Heaven knows.

ST. ELISE.

HER faith makes worthy things of worthless, With all its promised powers.

Her hope makes joyous hearts of mirthless,
With all the peace it showers.

Her love can waken love now birthless-
Would such a love were ours!

If you had lived in olden days,
When men were too devout to praise
An earthly beauty,

They would have canonized you saint
And fasted for your sake in quaint
Excess of duty.

They would have called you good, divine,
And raised for you a sculptured shrine
In ancient fashion;

A cross, a font above, your face
O'erflowing with symbolic grace
And with compassion.

There pious men of holy creeds
Would whisper aves to their beads,
Both monk and friar,

And all would kneel before your face,
The beggar, yeoman, lord in lace,
The knight and squire.

To-day our faith is much the same;
Perhaps it is far more a name

To live than die for

Than in those days of cross and blade,
Those days of torture and crusade,
We mourn and sigh for.

But virtue keeps its sacredness,

Our better selves have changed far less
Than have our manners;

We reverence innocence and truth,
To the divinity of youth

We pledge our banners.

We have not changed; the shrines of old
Are in our hearts, and there we hold
An image of you,

Dear Saint Elise! ah, yes, as such We worship you to-day as much And more we love you.

BALLADE OF TEASING.

HER letters come and I am glad,
The heavens seem a brighter blue;
They fail to come and I am sad,
The skies are dull and tearful too.
I sing her songs, as poets do,
She reads them, do they fail to please?
She loves me-no, she hates me-pooh!
Clorinda is a charming tease.

I call her "angel," and I add

Some sentences, ah, far less true, And she it really is too badNeglects to write a post or two. And when alarmed I sadly sue Forgiveness on my bended knees, She laughs and says, "'Twas only you." Clorinda is a charming tease.

One day I am Sir Galahad,

Devoted, gallant, tender, true,
The next she finds she has to add
That I am Don Quixote too.
She vows to read my letters through
To every other maid she sees.

Of course she may, but still a few-
Clorinda is a charming tease.

ENVOY.

Fates, did I rule your snake-haired crew,
I would not alter your decrees,

I would not have her made anew,
Clorinda is a charming tease.

AD CHLOEN, ÆTAT. XLV.

CHLOE, Time's breath is harsh and rough,
And you are surely old enough
To be my mother.

That wrinkle certainly I see,
Half hidden 'neath the "poudre de riz,"
Or something other.

You once, perhaps, were true and fair,
As sweet and pure as mountain air
That breathes of heaven;

But now you're growing stout and gray;
And what is worse, I heard you say,

"I'm twenty-seven."

Perhaps on some one's arm you strayed,
'Mid quiet paths ('tis like a maid—
See lovers' annals),

Preferring moonlight to the "hop";
But now the night air makes you stop
And think of flannels.

Perhaps with slender maiden grace
You led gay Love a pretty race,
And romped with Cupid.
Perhaps your wit and beauty drew
Full many a swain, before you grew
Both fat and stupid.

You were a "blue," I have no doubt;
Read Greek, perhaps could tell about
The swan and Leda;

But now you never read at all,
Except the "Robes et Modes Journal,"
Or "Moths," by Ouida.

Ah, madame, with your purchased wiles,
Your painted blush, your penciled smiles
And vulgar jewels,

Your time is usually spent
In gossip of unkind intent,

Or working crewels.

With simple faith fast girt about,
You were as trusting, as devout
As any Quaker;

But now the god you most revere
And worship, supplicate and fear,
Is your dressmaker.

Chloë, have not the vanished years
That mock you through a mist of tears
Left some sad traces?

Or is your heart a patent thing
Adjusted by a hidden spring

And bought at "Macy's"?

AN APOLOGY.

Now, no one could see-

And her waist was so slender

What wonder that we,

As no one could see,

Sat so long 'neath the tree

In an attitude tender.

Really, no one could see

And her waist was so slender.

JACQUEMINOT.

Rose, come you not ambassador

From Cupid's court to let me know Love yields at last? Speak, I implore! She loves me-rose, you tell me so.

R

ROBERT BROWNING.

OBERT BROWNING was born at Camberwell, England, May 7, 1812, and died at Venice, December 12, 1889. At 37 he married Elizabeth Barrett, the greatest poet among English women. Their wedded life was spent chiefly in Florence, for Mrs. Browning could not endure her native climate. After her death, in 1861, Browning never revisited Florence; but he abode much in Italy, though a familiar and welcome presence in London during "the season."

To poetry he was wholly dedicated at an early age, and his zeal before her altar was unwearied. He wrote vastly more verse than any other poet of our day. In quality it is the most varied, subtle, strong, since Shakespeare.

His verse is varied, because he wrote in many moods, yet in forms that were "always dramatic in principle"; plays and monologues, idyls and romances. He wrote of many times and lands; of human character in many phases; of men fierce and gentle; of women jealous and confiding, warm and winning, cold and cruel. He dipped from the well of self-devoted love and stirred the bitter pool of hate. He was himself a painter and musician, and often fitly set forth the sister arts in the language of the one he had chosen mainly to serve.

His verse is subtle, for he wrote of the springs of human action as revealed in a thousand situations. Shakespeare summoned all the world to act upon his stage. Browning tested each individual soul in his crucible, and compelled it to deliver up such secrets of the inner life as no previous analysis had disclosed.

His verse is so strong that he may well be called the poet of energy. Though he wrote some stanzas of surpassing grace, the quality of strength has made his fame, which will be lasting, for his theme was high. That the spirit of man is great and immortal, because always capable of effort towards an ideal beyond, is the truth to which he was constant. Such was his philosophy.

Robert Browning is an apostle of nineteenth century Christianity. At a time when imposed authority is losing its power and superstitious dogmas are inadequate, he makes us feel spiritual truth by his own virile faith, burning like a beacon against a stormy sky.

There has been much dispute over the question whether he is a great poet, which turns upon the mere definition of art and opinions about the scope of poetry. This has its proper place, but is subordinate here. Men of a broad nature and women of a noble mind, who value all that sends the soul