With Love he fills the Spring-time air;
With Love he clothes the Winter tree.
Oh, past this poor horizon's bound

My song goes straight to one who stands—
Her face all gladdening at the sound-
To lead me to the Spring-green lands,
To wander with enlacing hands.

The

songs within my breast that stir
Are all of her, are all of her.
My maid is dead long years (quoth he),
She waits for me in Arcady.

Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,

To Arcady, to Arcady;

Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,

Where all the leaves are merry.

John Burroughes

WAITING.

Serene, I fold my hands and wait,
Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea;
I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,
For lo! my own shall come to me.

I stay my haste, I make delays,

For what avails this eager pace?

I stand amid the eternal ways,

And what is mine shall know my face.

Asleep, awake, by night or day,

The friends I seek are seeking me;

No wind can drive my bark astray,
Nor change the tide of destiny.

What matter if I stand alone?

I wait with joy the coming years; My heart shall reap where it has sown, And garner up its fruit of tears.

The waters know their own and draw

The brook that springs in yonder height; So flows the good with equal law Unto the soul of pure delight.

The stars come nightly to the sky;
The tidal wave unto the sea;

Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,
Can keep my own away from me.

WmAllen Butter

THE INCOGNITA OF RAPHAEL.

[The portrait to which the following verses refer is in the Pitti Palace, at Florence.]

Long has the summer sunlight shone
On the fair form, the quaint costume;
Yet, nameless still, she sits unknown,
A lady in her youthful bloom.

Fairer for this! no shadows cast
Their blight upon her perfect lot,
Whate'er her future or her past,

In this bright moment matters not.

No record of her high descent

There needs, nor memory of her name;

Enough that Raphael's colors blent

To give her features deathly fame!

'Twas his anointing hand that set

The crown of beauty on her brow;

Still lives its early radiance yet,

As at the earliest, even now

'Tis not the ecstasy that glows

In all the rapt Cecilia's grace; Nor yet the holy, calm repose

He painted on the Virgin's face.

Less of the heavens, and more of earth,
There lurk within these earnest eyes,
The passions that have had their birth
And grown beneath Italian skies.

What mortal thoughts, and cares, and dreams,
What hopes, and fears, and longings rest
Where falls the folded veil, or gleams
The golden necklace on her breast!

What mockery of the painted glow

May shade the secret soul within; What griefs from passion's overflow, What shame that follows after sin!

Yet calm as heaven's serenest dreams
Are those pure eyes, those glances pure;
And queenly is the state she keeps,

In beauty's lofty trust secure.

And who has strayed, by happy chance,

Through all those grand and pictured halls,

Nor felt the magic of her glance,

As when a voice of music falls?

Not soon shall I forget the day,

Sweet day, in spring's unclouded time,

While on the glowing canvas lay

The light of that delicious clime;