Like some fair sloop appeared to sail.

Against her ankles as she trod
The lucky buttercups did nod:

I leaned upon the gate to see.

The sweet thing looked, but did not speak; A dimple came in either cheek,

And all my heart was gone from me.

Then, as I lingered on the gate,
And she came up like coming fate,

I saw my picture in her eyes,

Clear dancing eyes, more black than sloes!
Cheeks like the mountain pink, that grows
Among white-headed majesties !

I said, "A tale was made of old
That I would fain to thee unfold.
Ah! let me,
- let me tell the tale."
But high she held her comely head:
"I cannot heed it now," she said,

"For carrying of the milking-pail."

She laughed. What good to make ado?
I held the gate, and she came through,
And took her homeward path anon.
From the clear pool her face had fled;
It rested on my heart instead,

Reflected when the maid was gone.

But I can milk and marry, Fill pail,

I can milk and marry.

Wheugh, wheugh! he has whistled through He has whistled through the water.

Fill, fill, with a will, a will,

For he's whistled through the water,
And he's whistling down

The way to the town,

And it's not "The Farmer's Daughter!"

Churr, churr! goes the cockchafer,

The sun sets over the water,

Churr, churr! goes the cockchafer,

I'm too late for my Harry!

And, O, if he goes a-soldiering,

ring,

But I'll neither milk nor marry,

Fill pail,

Neither milk nor marry.

My brow beats on thy flank, Fill pail,
Give down, good wench, give down!
I know the primrose bank, Fill pail,
Between him and the town.

Give down, good wench, give down, Fill pail,
And he shall not reach the town!

Strain, strain! he's whistling again,

He's nearer by half a mile.

More, more! O, never before

Were you such a weary while!

Fill, fill he's crossed the hill,
I can see him down by the stile,

He's passed the hay, he's coming this way,
He's coming to me, my Harry!
Give silken gowns to the folk o' towns,
He's coming to me, my Harry!
There's not so grand a dame in the land,
That she walks to-night with Harry!
Come late, come soon, come sun, come moon,
0, I can milk and marry,

Fill pail,

I can milk and marry.

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?

It seems so light, can the sun be set?
The dews must be heavy, my cheeks are wet,

I could cry to have hurt the daisies!

Harry is near, Harry is near,

My heart's as sick as if he were here,
My lips are burning, my cheeks are wet,
He has n't uttered a word as yet,
But the air's astir with his praises.
My Harry!

The air's astir with your praises.

He has scaled the rock by the pixy's stone,
He's among the kingcups, - he picks me one,
I love the grass that I tread upon
When I go to my Harry!

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

AUF WIEDERSEHEN! *

SUMMER.

THE little gate was reached at last,

Half hid in lilacs down the lane; She pushed it wide, and, as she past, A wistful look she backward cast,

And said, "Auf wiedersehen!"
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.

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;
And, in the dim and perfumed mist

Their coming stayed, who, blithe and free,
And very women, loved to assist
A lover's opportunity.

Twice rose, twice died, my trembling word;
To faint and frail cathedral chimes
Spake time in music, and we heard

The chafers rustling in the limes.

Her dress, that touched me where I stood; The warmth of her confided arm; * Till we meet again!

"My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they 've dropt into the well,

And what to say to Muça, I cannot, cannot tell." 'T was thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daughter, —

"The well is deep, far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water.

To me did Muça give them, when he spake his sad farewell,

And what to say when he comes back, alas! I cannot tell.

"My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they were pearls in silver set,

That when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget,

That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor smile on other's tale,

But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those ear-rings pale.

When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped

not tell.

My ear-rings! my ear-rings! O, luckless, luckless well!

For what to say to Muça, alas! I cannot tell.

"I'll tell the truth to Muça, and I hope he will believe,

That I have thought of him at morning, and thought of him at eve;

That musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone,

His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone;

And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my hand they fell,

And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the well." JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART.

arrows go;

But thou giv'st little heed, for I speak to one who knows

That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere

he goes.

"It wearies me, mine enemy, that I must weep

and bear

What fills thy heart with triumph, and fills my own with care.

Thou art leagued with those that hate me, and ah !

thou know'st I feel

That cruel words as surely kill as sharpest blades of steel.

'T was the doubt that thou wert false that wrung my heart with pain;

But, now I know thy perfidy, I shall be well again. I would proclaim thee as thou art- but every maiden knows

That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes."

Thus Fatima complained to the valiant Raduan, Where underneath the myrtles Alhambra's fountains ran:

The Moor was inly moved, and blameless as he was, He took her white hand in his own, and pleaded thus his cause:

"O lady, dry those star-like eyes, their dimness does me wrong;

If my heart be made of flint, at least 't will keep thy image long;

Thou hast uttered cruel words, but I grieve the less for those,

Since she who chides her lover forgives him ere he goes."

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

SOMEBODY.

SOMEBODY's courting somebody, Somewhere or other to-night; Somebody's whispering to somebody, Somebody's listening to somebody,

Under this clear moonlight.

Near the bright river's flow,
Running so still and slow,
Talking so soft and low,

She sits with somebody.

Pacing the ocean's shore,
Edged by the foaming roar,
Words never used before

Sound sweet to somebody.
Under the maple-tree
Deep though the shadow be,

THE SPINNING-WHEEL SONG.

MELLOW the moonlight to shine is beginning; Close by the window young Eileen is spinning; Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother, sitting, Is croaning, and moaning, and drowsily knitting,

"Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping." "T is the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping."

"Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing."

""T is the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying."

Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring;

Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.

"What's that noise that I hear at the window,

Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,

Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring;

Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.

The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fingers,

Steals up from her seat, longs to go, and yet lingers;

A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother,

Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the other.

Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round;
Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound;
Noiseless and light to the lattice above her
The maid steps, - then leaps to the arms of her
lover.

Slower and slower- and slower the wheel swings;

Lower and lower- and lower the reel rings; Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and moving,

Through the grove the young lovers by moonlight are roving.

JOHN FRANCIS WALLER.