"There will be no talk there of new dresses or reformatory schools, I'm sure of that," she said, preparing to go to bed. She felt somehow wronged and slighted to-night, and wished for old Peter's knee to rest on. She had no friend like old Peter, and never would have.
Rebecca Harding Davis.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
OVERDUE.
The beads from the wine have all vanished,
Which bubbled in brightness so late;
The lights from the windows are banished,
Close shut is the gate
Which yesterday swung wide in joyance,
And beckoned to fate.
The goblet stands idle, untasted,
Or, tasted, is tasteless to-night;
The breath of the roses is wasted;
In sackcloth bedight,
The soul, in the dusk of her palace,
Sits waiting the light.
Ah! why do the ships waft no token
Of grace to this sorrowful realm?
Must suns shine in vain, while their broken
Rays clouds overwhelm?
Tender Breeze, if some sail bear a message,
Rule thou at the helm!
But if haply the ruler be coming,
Drug the sea-sirens each with a kiss:
Stroke the waves into calmest of humming
Over ocean's abyss:
Speed him soft from the shore of the stranger
To the haven of this.
And the soul-bells in joyous revival
Shall peal all the carols of spring;
The roses and ruby wine rival
Each other to bring,
In the crimson and fragrance of welcome,
Delight to the king.