The robin, the forerunner of the spring,
The bluebird with his jocund carolling,
The restless swallows building in the eaves,
The golden buttercups, the grass, the leaves,
The lilacs tossing in the winds of May,-
All welcomed this majestic holiday!

He gave a splendid banquet, served on plate,
Such as became the Governor of the State,
Who represented England and the King,
And was magnificent in everything.

He had invited all his friends and peers,-
The Pepperels, the Langdons, and the Lears,
The Sparhawks, the Penhallows, and the rest,
For why repeat the name of every guest?
But I must mention one, in bands and gown,
The rector there, the Reverend Arthur Brown
Of the Established Church; with smiling face
He sat beside the Governor and said grace;
And then the feast went on, as others do,
But ended as none other I e'er knew.

When they had drunk the King, with many a cheer,
The Governor whispered in a servant's ear,
Who disappeared, and presently there stood
Within the room, in perfect womanhood,
A maiden, modest and yet self-possessed,
Youthful and beautiful, and simply dressed.
Can this be Martha Hilton? It must be !

Yes, Martha Hilton, and no other she!
Dowered with the beauty of her twenty years,
How lady-like, how queen-like she appears;
The pale, thin crescent of the days gone by
Is Dian now in all her majesty !

Yet scarce a guest perceived that she was there,
Until the Governor, rising from his chair,
Played slightly with his ruffles, then looked down
And said unto the Reverend Arthur Brown :
"This is my birthday; it shall likewise be
My wedding-day; and you shall marry me !"

The listening guests were greatly mystified,
None more so than the rector, who replied:
"Marry you? Yes, that were a pleasant task,
Your Excellency; but to whom, I ask?”
The Governor answered: "To this lady here;'
And beckoned Martha Hilton to draw near..

She came and stood, all blushes, at his side.

The rector paused. The impatient Governor cried : "This is the lady; do you hesitate?

Then I command you as Chief Magistrate."
The rector read the service loud and clear:
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here,"
And so on to the end. At his command,

On the fourth finger of her fair left hand
The Governor placed the ring; and that was all :

Martha was Lady Wentworth of the Ha!!!

THE BARON OF ST. CASTINE.

BARON CASTINE of St. Castine

Has left his chateau in the Pyrenees,

And sailed across the western scas.

When he went away from his fair demesne
The birds were building, the woods were green,

And now the winds of winter blow

Round the turrets of the old chateau,

The birds are silent and unseen,

The leaves lie dead in the ravine,

And the Pyrenees are white with snow.

His father, lonely, old and grey,
Sits by the fireside day by day,

Thinking over one thought of care;

Through the southern windows, narrow and tall,

The sun shines into the ancient hall,

And makes a glory round his hair.

The house-dog, stretched beneath his chair,

Groans in his sleep as if in pain,

Then wakes, and yawns, and sleeps again,

So silent is it everywhere;

So silent you can hear the mouse
Run and rummage along the beams
Behind the wainscot of the wall;

And the old man rouses from his dreams, And wanders restless through the house,

As if he heard strange voices call.

His footsteps echo along the floor
Of a distant passage, and pause awhile
He is standing by an open door

Looking long, with a sad, sweet smile,
Into the room of his absent son.
There is the bed on which he lay,
There are the pictures, bright and gay,
Horses and hounds and sun-lit seas;
There are his powder-flask and gun,
And his hunting-knives in shape of a fan ;
The chair by the window where he sat,
With the clouded tiger-skin for a mat,

Looking out on the Pyrenees,
Looking out on Mount Marboré,

And the Seven Valleys of Lavedan.
Ah, me! he turns away and sighs;
There is a mist before his eyes.

At night, whatever the weather be,

Wind or rain or starry heaven,

Just as the clock is striking seven,
Those who look from the windows see

The village Curate, with lantern and maid,
Come through the gateway from the park,

And cross the courtyard damp and dark,-
A ring of light in a ring of shade.

And now at the old man's side he stands,
His voice is cheery, his heart expands,
He gossips pleasantly, by the blaze
Of the fire of fagots, about old days,
And Cardinal Mazarin and the Fronde,
And the Cardinal's nieces fair and fond,
And what they did and what they said,
When they heard his Eminence was dead.

And after a pause the old man says,
His mind still coming back again

To the one sad thought that haunts his brain,
"Are there any tidings from over sea?

Ah, why has that wild boy gone from me?"
And the Curate answers, looking down,

Harmless and docile as a lamb,

"Young blood! young blood! It must so be!"

And draws from the pocket of his gown

A handkerchief like an oriflamb,

And wipes his spectacles, and they play

Their little game of lansquenet

In silence for an hour or so,

Till the clock at nine strikes loud and clear
From the village lying asleep below,

And across the courtyard, into the dark

Of the winding pathway in the park