Patience Dow

Homo from the mili carne Patience Dow ; Sho did not smile, she would not talk ; And iinff she was all tears, and uow, Aa fierce as is a captivo hawk. Unmindful of her laded gown, She sat with folded hands all day, Her long hair falling tangled down, Her sad eyes gading far away, Whoro, past the fields, a silver line, She saw the distant river shine. But, whon she thought herself alone, One night, they lieard her mutteriug low, In such a chili, despairing tone, It seemed the east wmd's sullen moan : " Ah me ! the days, they move so slow ! I care not if they're fair or foul ; They creep a long - I know not how ; I only kuow he loved me once - He does not love me uow ! " One morning, vacant was her room ; And, in the clover wet with dew, A narrow line of broken blo-om Showed some one had been passing through ; And, following the track, it led Across a field of summer gram, Out where the thorny blackberries shed Their blossotns in the narrow lanc. Down which the cattle went to drink In summer, from the river's brink, " The river ! " Hope within them sank ; The fatal thought tnat drew her thero They knew, before, among the rank, Wliite-blossomed weeds upon the bank, They found the shawl she used to wear, And on it piuned a little note : " Oh, blame me not ! " it read, " for when I once am free, my soul will float To bjm ! He cannot leave me then ! I know uot if 'tis right or wrong - I go from life - I care not how ; I only know he loved me once - He does not love me now ! " In the farm graveyard, 'neath the black, Funereal pine-trees on the hill, The poor,. worn f orín the stream gayo back They laid in sluiuber, cold and still. Her secret slept with her ; none knew Whose fickle smile had Jeft the pain That cursed lier life ; to one thought true, Her vision-haunted, wandering brain, Secure from all, hid safe from blame, In life and death had kept his name. Yet, often, with a thrill of fear, Her mother as she lies awake At night, wiU fancy she can hear A voice, whose tone is like the drear, Low sound the graveyard pine-trees make : " I know not ïf 't is right or wrong - I go from life- I care not how ; I only know he loved me once - Ho does not love me novr ! " - Atlantic for March.