'The annals of the human race,
Its records since the world began,
Of them afford no other trace
Than this—there lived a man'
and his wife, whose name was Tompkins.
I superscribe my story 'A Simple Tale,' and 'simply,' as Sir Andrew Aguecheek has it, I believe it is such. It can possess no interest save from the mystery which hangs over its subjects; no pathos, except from their loneliness on the earth, into whose common bosom they have been consigned, leaving only such frail memorials behind them as their laconic epitaphs and this evanescent legend.
[ROSALIE.]
I seek thy pleasant bower,
My gentle Rosalie,
To win its richest flower,
And find that flower in thee.
No more, though spring advances,
I seek her shining train;
I only meet thy glances,
And my heart is young again.
Thou art the morn, fair creature,
That wakes the birds and roses,
Thine, is the living feature
Where light and joy reposes.
All day, young joy pursuing,
I've found, when caught, that she
Was the maid I had been wooing,
The wild, young Rosalie.
When first the morning's lustre
Lights up the fleecy plain,
When first the shy stars cluster,
When the moon begins to wane;
Then do I seek thy bower,
With a spirit fond and free,
To win its richest flower,
And find that flower in thee.
G. B. Singleton.