THE RECONCILIATION.

To her grave beside the sea;

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands o' Dee.

As through the land at eve we went,

And plucked the ripened ears,

We fell out, my wife and I,

O we fell out, I know not why,
And kissed again with tears.

For when we came where lies the child
We lost in other years,

There, above the little grave,

O there, above the little grave,

We kissed again with tears.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE GARRET.

O, IT was here that Love his gifts bestowed
On Youth's wild age!

Gladly once more I seek my youth's abode,
In pilgrimage:

Here my young mistress with her poet dared.
Reckless to dwell:

She was sixteen, I twenty—and we shared
This attic cell.

Yes, 'twas a garret! be it known to all,
Here was Love's shrine;

There read, in charcoal traced along the wall,

The unfinished line.

Here was the board where kindred hearts would blend:

The Jew can tell

How oft I pawned my watch to feast a friend
In attic cell.

O, my Lisette's fair form could I recall

With fairy wand!

There she would blind the window with her shawl:
Bashful, yet fond.

THE GARRET.

What though from whom she got her dress I've since
Learned but too well?

Still in those days I envied not a prince,
In attic cell.

Here the glad tidings on our banquet burst,
'Mid the bright bowls:

Yes, it was here Marengo's triumph first
Kindled our souls!

Bronze cannon roared; France with redoubled might
Felt her heart swell;

Proudly we drank our Consul's health that night
In attic cell!

Dreams of my youthful days! I'd freely give,
Ere my life's close,

All the dull days I'm destined yet to live,
For one of those.

Where shall I now find raptures that were felt,
Joys that befell,

And hopes that dawned at twenty, when I dwelt

In attic cell?

PIERRE JEAN DE BÉRANGER. (French.)

Translation of Rev. FRANCIS MAHONY. (Father Prout.)

MAUD MULLER, on a summer's day,
Raked the meadow, sweet with hay.

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

MAUD MULLER.

But when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast:

A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.

The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.

He drew his bridle in the shade

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed Through the meadow, across the road.

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, And filled for him her small tin cup,

And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.

"Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaffed."

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;