March Madrigals

Two little white hands put over the eyes, Aodtresses of hair brushing over tho cheek ; A naad, merry voico in iny ear laughing cries : " Who is it holdn you, sir ? answer me quick ! " Do I not know tkein. the bonny red lips, Trim little waiet in the calicó gown, Eyes with loug lashes where tremulous slips The love-light half baehf ully, tenderly down ? Do I not know them ? Ah ! lovc, I was blind Ere the dainty ringed hands came over my eyes And roguish white arme ne'er closer can bmd Than the love which once kindled to life neve dies. - Wilt Wallace Harney, inAppletons'. THE BROKEN OAK. Once upon Iceland's solitary strand A poet wandered with hia book and pen, Seeking some ilnal word, some sweet Amen, Wherewith to close the volume in lus hand. The billowR rolled aud plucged upon tne sand, Tho circling Bea-giüls swept boyond his ken, And from the parting cloud-rack now and then riashed the red sunset over sea and land. Then by the billows at his feet was tossed A broken oar ; and carved therein be read, " Of t was I weary, when I toiled at thee ;" And like a man who findeth what was lost, He wrote the words, then lifted up his hoad, And flung his useloes pen into the eea. -Uenry W. Longfellow, in Atlantic Monthly. THE LILY. I saw the lily pale and perfect grow Amid ite eilent sisters in the mead. Methought within its chilly depth to read A maidenly severity, as though A cool young life lay slumbering in the snow Of its frail substanee. In that chalice white Whose fairy texture Bhone againut the light An unwakened pulse beat faint and slow. And I remembered, love, thy coy disdain, When ihou my love for thee'hadst first divined ; Thy proud, ehy teuderness - too proud to feign That willful blindnesa which is yet not blind. Then toward the gun thy lily-life I turned- With sudden spleador flushed its chalice burned. - H. H. Boyesen, in Scribner. ST. VALENTINE. The Bleet was blowing ; where was any eign Of greening valley, cali of mating bird? Yet, close beside my ear, a voice I lieard - A whisper- " Sweet, choose now your valen tin e I" " Nay, wait tiliskies are softer, airs more fine." But still, ünpptuous, feil that whispered word, " Choose, choose your valen tine I" Wliai was it stirred, Likebrcath of June, this yielding heart of mine? Sudden, the bleak earth blopsomed into bowers Of bridal beauty - for ite wreathing snowB, Wide banks of creainy jessamine and rose - While, on the pane, blooined out great passionflowers ; And I - so subtle-sweet Lore's whispere are !- Be Bure for choice I did not wander far, - Coroline A. Masón, in Scribner. TOO WIDE I Oh, mighty Earth, thou art too wide, too wide ! Too vast thy continents, too broad thy seas, Too far thy prairies reaching fair as these Now reddening in the sunset'a crimson iide ! Suiylered by thee how have thy children cned Each to some other, until every breeze Has borne a burden of fond messages That all unheard in thy lone wastes have died ! Draw closer, oh, dear Earth, thy billa that soar Up to blue skies such countJesa leagues apart ! Bid lbou thine awf ui spaces smaller grow ! Compasa thy biJiows with n narrower t-hore, That yearning lips niay meet, heart beat to heart, And parted eouls forget their lonely woe 1 - Julia C. R. Dorr, in Sunday Afternoon. WINTER. The circling hills with enow are white The dark woods on their sides Stand leafiesa in the iow gray light, The brown cloud o'or tüeni glides. The Iow sun chills, the cold raoon atares Jbrom out the icy east ; The young folk go, in muffied pairs, To dancing and to feast ; And rieing froni the suowy roof Into a XJassing fold, Tne dun snioke weaves its clouded woof Wït&in the warp of cold, The eaveB snap and the whole house shakes ; In woodlands, hadow-crossed, The heavy timber, groaning, quakeö Beneath the tides of frost. Themoon to wTestern forest deeps Sinks down, and black airs fall Upon the land, until there creops A glnnmoriug cold through all ; In frosty barns with vaporo dim The cocks altérnate crow, As lifts the Bun a glowless rim To frozen hills of snow. - C L. C.'eavcïand, in Atlantic Monthly. MY DItEAMLAND. Tho way to Dreamland - do I know ? Years ago Every path for thy roaming feet Led the way to Dreamland, sweet ! Have I forgotten? Maybe, dear; Far or near Matters little, and Iess I care. So I do not lose you there. Do I abjure it? Sweet one, n:iy ; Look this way ; Dreamland now for thy joyance lies In the blue haze of your eyes ! - A jvpletomi' Journal. CHANSON D'AMOUR. Free as the dew to rose's lips, Free as the wind to ocean ships, Free as the fount to pilgrinrs thirst, And Eden's fruit to Eve at first, Free as the clovers to the bee - Has all thy eweetness been to rae ! Naught is Biore pure than morning dew, Or breath of winds on the biÜowB blue, Or lymph that gusbes f rom the rock, Or Eden'H bloom before sin's shock, Or honeyed store of laden bee - And pure as these thy love to me ! If the free dew should flout the rose, If ships lie still though free wind blows, If founts to thirsty Ups were stayed, If hopo should fail the sin-betrayed, And the bee bucIi the flcwer in vain - Each missing joy were mighty pain. And like the rose with dewless leaves, Or Bhip the strong wind only heaves, Or thirsty jips at fountain's brim, Or Eden's bloom to eyes grown dixo, Or like the beo the clovers cheat, Am I- thine eyeB grown cold to meet ! The rose loves not the dew-dry air, The ehip th' unspeeding gale could spare, The pilgrim hate the pmpty spring. And Eden barred despair would bring, The bee when honey fails would die - And in thy cold glanco perieh i ! - W. C.Richards, inAppletons WISHES. I wisli that grasses would learn to sprout, Tliat the lilac and rofie-bush would both ïeaf out ; That the crocus would put on her gay green frill, And robins begin to whistle and trill ! I wiBh that the wind-fiower would grope ííb way Out of the darkneBS into the day ; That the rain would fall and the sun wonld ehine, And the rainbow hang in the sky for a sign. I wish that the Büent brooks would shout, And the apple-blossoms begin to pont ; Audif I wisk long enough, no doubt, The fairy Spring will bring it about ! - Mary S. Prescott, in St. Nicholas.