THE RAPE OF PROSERPINE.

Sweet Proserpine you here behold
Far from her corn-crowned mother's care,
Dragged down by Pluto, swart and old,
His dismal throne to share.
She figures many a one the prey
Of passion's ill-resisted powers,
Who, spurning all that love can say,
Seeks but for earthly flowers.
Ere these you gather, maiden mine,
With faith's pure lilies wreathe your soul,
Then fear not any art malign
Shall work thee mortal dole.

GIRLS RUNNING.

As yet they make of life a dancing race,
Rarely they pause to pant, still less to think;
They have not met the dark ones face to face,
They have not shuddered o'er the ghastly brink.
Life's holiday is theirs;—how sweet to hear
The gay young laughter rippling down the wind;
Ah! who would breathe the name of care or fear,
Or hint that fortune could be less than kind!
They skim gazelle-like pitfalls set in flowers,
Too glib their ankles for the serpent's bite,
Yet on and on they rush to meet the hours
Of dimness and perplexity and night.
Yes, each must suffer, and some too will fall,
But not for aye need sin and grief o'ercast;
May He who knows His lambs, and loves them all,
To His own fold ingather them at last.

THE SIREN.

A Siren on a rocky isle,
A youth upon the cliff is seen;
She tries his fancy to beguile,
The deep dark water moans between.
"Gentle thou art," he saith, "and fair,
Yet nought thine azure eyes avail,
Amid the golden coils of hair,
Gleams weirdly forth the fish's tail."
Yet still he gazed, she smiled the more:
She sang a wondrous witching strain;
He groaned and sighed, he laughed and swore,
Then plunged into the deadly main.