And what they would, would rather they would not so;

Till he said,

hending

Crisp-haired, flat-featured, with a look Such as no dainty pen of gold Would write of in a Fairy Book.

So bent she almost crouched, her face Was like the Sphinx's face, to me, Touched with vast patience, desert grace, And lonesome, brooding mystery.

What wonder that a faith so strong

As hers, so sorrowful, so still, Should watch in bitter sands so long. Obedient to a burdening will !

This Princess was a Slave, - like one
Yet free enough to see the sun,
I read of in a painted tale;

And all the flowers, without a vail.

Of all the wondrous guile That women won win themselves with, and bending

Eyes of relentless asking on her the

while,

She was the Slave of Slavery.
Court-lace nor jewels had she seen :

That at her side the whitest queen
She wore a precious smile, so rare

Were dark, her darkness was so fair.

Nothing of loveliest loveliness

This strange, sad Princess seemed to lack; Majestic with her calm distress

She was, and beautiful though black:

enchanted

Far beyond words to tell,

Feeling her woman's finest wit had

wanted

The art he had that knew to blunder so well

In some vague Giant's tower of air, Built higher than her hope was. But The True Knight came and found her there.

ing,

"Shall we not be too late

For tea?" she said. "I'm quite worn out with walking:

Yes, thanks, your arm. And will you -open the gate?"

The cruel blackness shrank and fell.

Then, lifting slow her pleasant sleep,
He took her with him through the night,
And swam a River cold and deep,

And vanished up an awful Height.

All the hearts are not dead, nor under the sod,

That those breaths can blow open to Heaven and God!

Ah, "Silver Street" leads by a bright golden road,

-O, not to the hymns that in harmony flowed,

But those sweet human psalms in the old-fashioned choir,

To the girl that sang alto, -the girl that sang air!

"Let us sing in His praise," the good minister said,

All the psalm-books at once fluttered open at "York,"

Sunned their long dotted wings in the words that he read,

While the leader leaped into the tune just ahead,

And politely picked up the key-note with a fork,

And the vicious old viol went growling along,

At the heels of the girls, in the rear of

the song.

I need not a wing, -bid no genii come, With a wonderful web from Arabian loom, To bear me again up the river of Time,