Here on the right, a straggling wall
Of crazy, granite stones, and there
A rotten pine-trunk, brown and bare,
A mass of huge brakes, rank and tall--
The burning blue sky over all.
And yet these blackberries! shy and chaste!
The noisy markets know no such--
So ripe they tumble when you touch;
Long, taper--rarer wines they waste
Than ever town-bred topers taste.
And tell me! have you looked o'erhead
From lawns where lazy hammocks swing
And seen such bird-throats lent a wing?
Such flames of song that flashed and fled?
Well, maybe--_I'm_ not city-bred.
FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES.
_Wesleyan Literary Monthly._
~Skating Song.~
Moon so bright,
Stars alight,
Clouds adance, adance;
Snow of night,
Fleecy white,
Silver ice agleam, aglance.
High, hey, high, hey,
Skimming the smooth, bright way,
High, hey, high, hey,
Over the ice away.
Cheeks so bright,
Face alight,
Heart adance, adance;
Eyes of night,
Brow of white,
Silver skates agleam, aglance.
High, hey, high, hey,
Skimming the smooth, bright way,
High, hey, high, hey,
Over the ice away.
CORA ISABEL WARBURTON.
_Smith College Monthly_.
~A Mystery.~
Once, a little while ago, 'twas so warm and still
Down here, in this soft, dark place.
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