DID he own her no more when he called her Eve,
Than a thing to take, or a thing to leave?
A flower-filled plot that unlocks to his key—
But, alas! the whole of her world is he.
May Probyn.
IN A GARDEN.
THE cowslip glowed, the tulip burned,
The grass was green as green could be;
There, as in sweet content we turned,
Beneath the budding linden-tree,
We saw the westering sunbeams shake
Large glory o’er the mountain lake.
The cushat cooed, the blackbird’s cry
About the terrace garden rang;
Still as we wooed, my love and I,
The throstle still enraptured sang,
And still the waters danced with glee,
Beneath the budding linden-tree.
The tulips trembled still with flame,
The cowslips gleamed along the walk,
Yet, dear one, when the last word came,
And silence only seemed to talk,
We looked and found the lake was gone,
Flowers dim, birds hushed, and one star shone.
Beloved! by many an up and down,
O’er level lawns, unlevel ways,
Through weeds and flowers, when birds had flown
And when birds sang, have passed the days
Since our new dawn forbade the night;
But lo! o’erhead Love’s star is bright.
Hardwick Drummond Rawnsley.
A SONG FOR CANDLEMAS.
THERE’s never a rose upon the bush,
And never a bud on any tree;
In wood and field nor hint nor sign
Of one green thing for you of me.
Come in, come in, sweet love of mine,
And let the bitter weather be.
Coated with ice the garden wall,
The river reeds are stark and still;
The wind goes plunging to the sea,
And last week’s flakes the hollows fill.
Come in, come in, sweet love, to me,
And let the year blow as it will.
Lizette Woodworth Reese.