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.

DENISE.

And that-and that-and that?

THE PRINCESS.

I name them not.

Those are the crowd who merely think their lot

The lighter by my land.

DENISE.

And is there none

More prized than most? There surely must be

one,

A Carp of carps!

THE PRINCESS.

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 1

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

row:

I am a Shade: a Shadowe too arte thou:

shattered

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.