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.

113

DOROTHY.

A RÊVERIE 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."

I

How not? She loved, may be, 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!

DOROTHY.

L'ENVOI.

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

115

AVICE.

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

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