The garden border where I stood
Was sweet with pinks and southernwood.
I spoke, her answer se, med to fail.
I smelt the pinks, I could not see.

The dusk came down and sheltered me.
And in the dusk she heard my tale.

And what is left that I should tell?
I begged a kiss, - I pleaded well :
The rosebud lips did long decline;
But yet, I think - I think 't is true
That, leaned at last into the dew,

One little instant they were mine!

O life! how dear thou hast become !
She laughed at dawn, and I was dumb!
But evening counsels best prevail.
Fair shine the blue that o'er her spreads,
Green be the pastures where she treads,
The maiden with the milking-pail!

JEAN INGELOW.

SONG OF THE MILKMAID.

FROM "QUEEN MARY."

SHAME upon you, Robin,

Shame upon you now!

Kiss me would you? with my hands
Milking the cow?

Daisies grow again,
Kingcups blow again,

And you came and kissed me milking the cow.

Robin came behind me,

Kissed me well I vow;

Cuff him could I? with my hands

Milking the cow ?

Swallows fly again,

Cuckoos cry again,

And you came and kissed me milking the cow.¦

Come, Robin, Robin,

Come and kiss me now;

Help it can I? with my hands

Milking the cow ?

Ringdoves coo again,

All things woo again,

Come behind and kiss me milking the cow!

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE MILK MAID'S SONG.

TURN, turn, for my cheeks they burn,
Turn by the dale, my Harry!
Fill pail, fill pail,

He has turned by the dale,

And there by the stile waits Harry.

Wheugh, wheugh! he has whistled through,
My Harry my lad my lover!
Set the sun and fall the dew,
Heigh-ho, merry world, what's to do
That you're smiling over and over?
Up on the hill and down in the dale,
And along the tree-tops over the vale
Shining over and over,

Low in the grass and high on the bough,
Shining over and over,

O world, have you ever a lover?

You were so dull and cold just now,

O world, have you ever a lover?

I could not see a leaf on the tree,

And now I could count them, one, two, three, Count them over and over,

Leaf from leaf like lips apart,

Like lips apart for a lover.

And the hillside beats with my beating heart,

And the apple-tree blushes all over,

He has jumped the brook, he has climbed the

knowe,

There's never a faster foot I know,

But still he seems to tarry.

O Harry! O Harry! my love, my pride,
My heart is leaping, my arms are wide!
Roll up, roll up, you dull hillside,
Roll up, and bring my Harry!
They may talk of glory over the sea,
But Harry's alive, and Harry 's for me,
My love, my lad, my Harry!

Come spring, come winter, come sun, come snow,
What cares Dolly, whether or no,
While I can milk and marry?

Right or wrong, and wrong or right,
Quarrel who quarrel, and fight who fight,
But I'll bring my pail home every night
To love, and home, and Harry'

We'll drink our can, we 'll eat our cake,
There's beer in the barrel, there's bread in the

EARLY on a sunny morning, while the lark was singing sweet,

lightly tripping feet.

'T was a lowly cottage maiden going, - why, let

young hearts tell,

With her homely pitcher laden, fetching water

from the well.

Shadows lay athwart the pathway, all along the

quiet lane,

And the breezes of the morning moved them to and fro again.

O'er the sunshine, o'er the shadow, passed the maiden of the farm,

With a charmed heart within her, thinking of no ill nor harın.

Pleasant, surely, were her musings, for the nodding leaves in vain

Sought to press their brightening image on her ever-busy brain.

Leaves and joyous birds went by her, like a dim,

half-waking dream;

And her soul was only conscious of life's gladdest

summer gleam.

At the old lane's shady turning lay a well of

water bright,

Singing, soft, its hallelujah to the gracious morar

ing light.

Fern-leaves, broad and green, bent o'er it where its silvery droplets fell,

And the fairies dwelt beside it, in the spotted foxglove bell.

Back she bent the shading fern-leaves, dipt the pitcher in the tide,

Drew it, with the dripping waters flowing o'er its glazed side.

But before her arm could place it on her shiny, wavy hair,

By her side a youth was standing! Love rejoiced to see the pair!

Tones of tremulous emotion trailed upon the morning breeze,

Gentle words of heart-devotion whispered 'neath the ancient trees.

But the holy, blessed secrets it becomes me not to tell :

Life had met another meaning, fetching water from the well!

Down the rural lane they sauntered. He the burden-pitcher bore;

She, with dewy eyes down looking, grew more beauteous than before!

When they neared the silent homestead, up he raised the pitcher light;

Like a fitting crown he placed it on her hair of wavelets bright :

Emblems of the coming burdens that for love of

him she'd bear,

Calling every burden blessed, if his love but lighted there.

Then, still waving benedictions, further, further

off he drew,

With hand on latch, a vision white
Lingered reluctant, and again
Half doubting if she did aright,
Soft as the dews that fell that night,
She said, "Auf wiedersehen!"

The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair;
I linger in delicious pain;

Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air
To breathe in thought I scarcely dare,
Thinks she, "Auf wiedersehen!"

"T is thirteen years: once more I press
The turf that silences the lane ;
I hear the rustle of her dress,
I smell the lilacs, and
ah yes,

I hear, "Auf wiedersehen!"

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art!

The English words had seemed too fain, But these they drew us heart to heart, Yet held us tenderly apart; She said, "Auf wiedersehen!”

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

MEETING.

THE gray sea, and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves, that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed in the slushy sand.

Then a mile of warm, sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross, till a farm appears:
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts, beating each to each.

ROBERT BROWNING.

SWEET MEETING OF DESIRES. I GREW assured, before I asked, That she'd be mine without reserve, And in her unclaimed graces basked At leisure, till the time should serve, With just enough of dread to thrill

The hope, and make it trebly dear :
Thus loath to speak the word, to kill
Either the hope or happy fear.

Till once, through lanes returning late,
Her laughing sisters lagged behind ;
And ere we reached her father's gate,
We paused with one presentient mind ;

The princess with that merry child Prince Guy:
He loves me well, and made her stop and sit,
And sat upon her knee, and it so chanced
That in his various chatter he denied
That I could hold his hand within my own
So closely as to hide it: this being tried
Was proved against him; he insisted then
I could not by his royal sister's hand
Do likewise. Starting at the random word,
And dumb with trepidation, there I stood
Some seconds as bewitched; then I looked up,
And in her face beheld an orient flush
Of half-bewildered pleasure: from which trance
She with an instant ease resumed herself,
And frankly, with a pleasant laugh, held out
Her arrowy hand.

I thought it trembled as it lay in mine,
But yet her looks were clear, direct, and free,
And said that she felt nothing.

SIDROC.
And what felt'st thou ?
ATHULF. A sort of swarming, curling, tremu-

lous tumbling,

As though there were an ant-hill in my bosom.

I said I was ashamed. - Sidroc, you smile;
If at my folly, well! But if you smile,
Suspicious of a taint upon my heart,
Wide is your error, and you never loved.

HENRY TAYLOR.

SEVEN TIMES THREE.

LOVE.

I LEANED Out of window, I smelt the white clover, Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate; "Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover

Hush, nightingale, hush! O sweet nightingale, wait

Till I listen and hear
If a step draweth near,
For my love he is late!

"The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and

nearer,

A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer : To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see?

Let the star-clusters glow,
Let the sweet waters flow,
And cross quickly to me.

"You night-moths that hover where honey brims

over

From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep; You glow-worms, shine out, and the pathway discover

To him that comes darkling along the rough steep.

Ah, my sailor, make haste,
For the time runs to waste,
And my love lieth deep, -

"Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover,

I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee tonight."

By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover;

Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight;

But I'll love him more, more
Than e'er wife loved before,

Be the days dark or bright.

JEAN INGELOW.

A SPINSTER'S STINT.

SIX skeins and three, six skeins and three !
Good mother, so you stinted me,
And here they be,—ay, six and three !

Stop, busy wheel! stop, noisy wheel! Long shadows down my chamber steal, And warn me to make haste and reel