bow and baldric hung:
     So, in true huntsman's guise, he threads the wood.

       The sun mounts up the sky,
       The air moves sluggishly,
     And reeks with summer heat in every pore.

       His limbs begin to tire,
       Slumbers his youthful fire;
     He sinks upon a violet-bed to rest.

       The soft winds go and come
       With low and drowsy hum,
     And ope for him the ivory gate of dreams.

       Beneath the forest-shade
       There trips a woodland maid,
     And marks with startled eye the sleeping youth.

       At first she thought to fly,
       Then, timid, drawing nigh,
     She gazed in wonder on his fair young face.

       When swiftly stooping down
       Upon his locks so brown
     She lightly pressed her lips, and blushing fled.

       When Colin woke from sleep,
       From slumbers calm and deep,
     He felt—he knew not how—his heart had flown.

       And so, with anxious care,
       He wandered here and there,
     But could not find his lost heart anywhere.

       Then he, with air distraught,
       And brow of anxious thought,
     Went out into the world beyond the wood.

       Of each that passed him by,
       He queried anxiously,
     "I prithee, hast thou seen a heart astray?"

       Some stared and hurried on,
       While others said in scorn.
     "Your heart has gone in search of your lost wits"

       The day is wearing fast,
       Young Colin comes at last
     To where a cottage stood embowered in trees.

       He looks within, and there
       He sees a maiden fair,
     Who sings low songs the while she plies her wheel.

       "I prithee, maiden bright,"—
       She turns as quick as light,
     And straight a warm flush crimsons all her face.

       She, much abashed, looks down,
       For on his locks so brown
     She seems to see the marks her lips have made.

JOHN MAYNARD.