Louise was grave when last we met;
Bell's beauty, like a sun, has set;

And Ruth, Heaven bless her,

Ruth that I wooed, - and wooed in vain, Has gone where neither grief nor pain Can now distress her.

DOROTHY.

A REVERIE SUGGESTED BY THE NAME UPON A PANE.

HE then must once have looked, as I

SHE

Look now, across the level rye,
Past Church and Manor-house, and seen,
As now I see, the village green,

The bridge, and Walton's river - she
Whose old-world name was "Dorothy."

The swallows must have twittered, too,
Above her head; the roses blew

Below, no doubt, and, sure, the South

Crept up the wall and kissed her mouth,-
That wistful mouth, which comes to me
Linked with her name of Dorothy.

What was she like? I picture her
Unmeet for uncouth worshipper; -
Soft,pensive, far too subtly graced
To suit the blunt bucolic taste,

Whose crude perception could but see
"Ma'am Fine-airs "in "Miss Dorothy."

How not? She loved, maybe, perfume,
Soft textures, lace, a half-lit room;
Perchance too candidly preferred
"Clarissa" to a gossip's word;

And, for the rest, would seem to be

Or proud, or dull this Dorothy.

Poor child!with heart the down-lined nest
Of warmest instincts unconfest,

Soft, callow things that vaguely felt
The breeze caress, the sunlight melt,
But yet, by some obscure decree
Unwinged from birth; — poor Dorothy!

Not less I dream her mute desire
To acred churl and booby squire,
Now pale, with timorous eyes that filled
At" twice-told tales" of foxes killed; -
Now trembling when slow tongues grew free.
'Twixt sport, and Port- and Dorothy!

'Twas then she'd seek this nook, and find
Its evening landscape balmy-kind;
And here, where still her gentle name
Lives on the old green glass, would frame
Fond dreams of unfound harmony

'Twixt heart and heart.

Poor Dorothy!

L'ENVOI.

These last I spoke. Then Florence said, -"Dreams? Delusions, Fred!"

Below me,

Next, with a pause, she bent the while
Over a rose, with roguish smile-
"But how disgusted, Sir, you'll be
To hear I scrawled that Dorothy.""

6

AVICE.

"On serait tenté de lui dire, Bonjour, Mademoiselle la Berge

That the souls of men, released

From their bodies when deceased,

Sometimes enter in a beast,

Or a bird.

I have watched you long, Avice,

Watched you so,

I have found your secret out;

And I know

That the restless ribboned things,

Where your slope of shoulder springs,

Are but undeveloped wings

That will grow.

When you enter in a room,

It is stirred