within my own,
The blushes slyly and swiftly starting,
  And then departing like rose-leaves blown.

Alas, the envious time is fleeting,
  But your heart is beating in time with mine,
And Cupid's rhyme rings louder—clearer,
  As I draw you nearer, my love divine!
In the twilight dim we have found love's tether,
  And are linked together, no more to part;
While the white stars swing in a maze of glory,
  To hear the story that bares your heart.

GUY WETMORE CARRYL. Columbia Spectator.

~Lines on a Ring.~

Oh, precious drop of crystal dew,
Set in a tiny band of gold,
Which doth within its little grasp
A blue-veined finger softly hold—
Thou failest if thy radiant rays
Are seeking—bold attempt 'twould be!—
To show a fraction of the love
That beams from Edith's eyes on me.

LOREN M. LUKE. Nassau Literary Monthly.

~A Memory.~

Shadows up the hillside creeping,
Gold in western sky,
Meadow-brook beneath us keeping
Dreamy lullaby.

Soft stars through the pine-trees gleaming—
Gems in dark robes caught—
Everything about us seeming
With hidden meaning fraught.

Sweet dark eyes, upon me turning,
Challenge if I dare,
Vie with amorous sunbeams burning
O'er her face and hair.

But a truce to idle musing—
That was long ago.
Was she gracious or refusing?
You may never know.

Winter's snows those fields are hiding
'Neath a robe of white,
For another she is biding
Tryst of love to-night.

I was only glancing over
  A book beloved of yore,
When a sprig of mountain clover
  Fluttered to the floor.

IRVILLE C. LECOMPTE. Wesleyan Literary Monthly.

[Illustration: A WESLEYAN GIRL.]

~The Soul's Kiss.~

Not your sweet, red lips, dear,
Tremulous with sighs,
Lest their passion dull love's rapture;
Kiss me with your eyes.

Gleam on Cupid's wing, dear,
At the least touch flies,
Even lips may brush to dimness;
Kiss me with your eyes.

Pain within the bliss, dear,
Of those soft curves lies;
Only love the soul's light carries;
Kiss me with your eyes.

MAUD THOMPSON. Wellesley Magazine.

~A Portrait.~

A slim, young girl, in lilac quaintly dressed;
A mammoth bonnet, lilac like the gown,
  Hangs from her arm by wide, white strings, the crown
Wreathed round with lilac blooms; and on her breast
A cluster; lips still smiling at some jest
  Just uttered, while the gay, gray eyes half frown
  Upon the lips' conceit; hair, wind-blown, brown
Where shadows stray, gold where the sunbeams rest.

Ah! lilac lady, step from your gold frame,
Between that starched old Bishop and the dame
  In awe-inspiring ruff. We'll brave their ire
And trip a minuet. You will not?—Fie!
Those mocking lips half make me wish that I,
  Her grandson, might have been my own grandsire.

Trinity Tablet.

~A Picture.~

On spinet old, Clarissa plays
The melodies of by-gone days.
Forgotten fugue, a solemn tune,
The bars of stately rigadoon.
With head bent down to scan each note,
A crimson ribbon round her throat,
The very birds to sing forget
As some old-fashioned minuet
Clarissa plays.

King George long since has passed away,
And minuets have had their day.
Within a hidden attic nook
Covered with dust, her music-book.
Gone are the keys her fingers pressed.
The bunch of roses at her breast.
But still, unmindful of time's flight,
With face so fair and hands so white,
Clarissa plays.

EDWARD B. REED. Yale Literary Magazine.

~Tildy in the Choir.~

Lines that ripple, notes that dance,
Foreign measures brought from France,
Reaching with a careless ease
From high C to—where you please,
Clever, frivolous, and gay—
These will answer in their way;
But that tune of long ago—
Stately, solemn, somewhat slow
(Dear "Old Hundred"—that's the air)—
Will outrank them anywhere;
Once it breathed a seraph's fire.
(Tildy sang it in the choir.)

How she stood up straight and tall!
Ah! again I see it all;
Cheeks that glowed and eyes that laughed,
Teeth like cream, and lips that quaffed
All the genial country's wealth
Of large cheer and perfect health,
Gown—well, yes—old-fashioned quite,
You would call it "just a fright,"
But I love that quaint attire.
(Tildy wore it in the choir.)

How we sang—for I was there,
Occupied a singer's chair
Next to—well, no prouder man
Ever lifts the bass, nor can,
Sometimes held the self-same book,
(How my nervous fingers shook!)
Sometimes—wretch—while still the air
Echoed to the parson's prayer,
I would whisper in her ear
What she could not help but hear.
Once, I told her my desire.
(Tildy promised in the choir.)

Well, those days are past, and now
Come gray hairs, and yet somehow
I can't think those years have fled—
Still those roadways know my tread,
Still I climb that old pine stair,
Sit upon the stiff-backed chair,
Stealing glances toward my left
Till her eyes repay the theft;
Death's a dream and Time's a liar—
Tildy still is in the choir.

Come, Matilda number two,
_Fin de siècle _maiden you!
Wonder if you'd like to see
Her I loved in fifty-three?
Yes? All right, then go and find
Mother's picture—"Papa!"—Mind!
She and I were married. You
Were our youngest. Now you, too,
Raise the same old anthems till
All the church is hushed and still
With a single soul to hear.
Do I flatter? Ah, my dear,
Time has brought my last desire—
Tildy still is in the choir!

FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES. Wesleyan Literary Monthly.

~A Memory.~

We sat in the lamplight's gentle glow,
Alone on the winding stair,
And the distant strains of a waltz fell low
On the fragrance-laden air.
I caught from her lips a murmured "yes,"
And the stately palms amid
There came a blissful, sweet caress—
I shouldn't have—but I did!

I might forget that joyous night,
As the months slip swiftly by;
I might forget the gentle light
That shone in her hazel eye;
But I can't forget that whispered "yes"
That came the palms amid,
I can't forget that one caress—
I shouldn't have—but I did!

GUY WETMORE CARRYL Columbia Spectator.

~The American Girl.~

The German may sing of his rosy-cheeked lass,
  The French of his brilliant-eyed pearl;
But ever the theme of my praises shall be
  The laughing American girl,
  Yes, the