Will you not add to this garden of girls others whom you would like to see blooming beside them? Remember, it is a rosebud garden, and the new-comers must be not only beautiful, but sweet and fragrant with pretty, womanly virtues.

_"She walks--the lady of my delight A shepherdess of sheep.

Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white; She guards them from the steep.

She feeds them on the fragrant height, And folds them in for sleep."_

VIII

A GARDEN OF GIRLS

_A Portrait_

"One Name is Elizabeth."--JONSON.

I will paint her as I see her: Ten times have the lilies blown, Since she looked upon the sun.

And her face is lily-clear-- Lily-shaped, and drooped in duty To the law of its own beauty.

Oval cheeks encolored faintly, Which a trail of golden hair Keeps from fading off to air:

And a forehead fair and saintly, Which two blue eyes undershine, Like meek prayers before a shrine.

Face and figure of a child,-- Though too calm, you think, and tender, For the childhood you would lend her.

Yet child-simple, undefiled, Frank, obedient,--waiting still On the turnings of your will.

Moving light, as all young things-- As young birds, or early wheat When the wind blows over it.

Only free from flutterings Of loud mirth that scorneth measure-- Taking love for her chief pleasure:

Choosing pleasures (for the rest) Which come softly--just as she, When she nestles at your knee.

Quiet talk she liketh best, In a bower of gentle looks,-- Watering flowers, or reading books.

And her voice, it murmurs lowly, As a silver stream may run, Which yet feels, you feel, the sun.

And her smile, it seems half holy, As if drawn from thoughts more fair Than our common jestings are.

And if any poet knew her, He would sing of her with falls Used in lovely madrigals.

And if any painter drew her, He would paint her unaware With a halo round her hair.

And if reader read the poem, He would whisper--"You have done a Consecrated little Una!"

And a dreamer (did you show him That same picture) would exclaim, "'Tis my angel, with a name!"

And a stranger,--when he sees her In the street even--smileth stilly, Just as you would at a lily.

And all voices that address her, Soften, sleeken every word, As if speaking to a bird.

And all fancies yearn to cover The hard earth whereon she pa.s.ses.

With the thymy scented gra.s.ses.

And all hearts do pray, "G.o.d love her!"

Ay, and always, in good sooth, We may all be sure he doth.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

_Little Bell_

Piped the blackbird on the beechwood spray: "Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, What's your name?" quoth he-- "What's your name? Oh, stop and straight unfold, Pretty maid with showery curls of gold,"-- "Little Bell," said she.

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks-- Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks-- "Bonny bird," quoth she, "Sing me your best song before I go."

"Here's the very finest song I know, Little Bell," said he.

And the blackbird piped; you never heard Half so gay a song from any bird;-- Full of quips and wiles, Now so round and rich, now soft and slow, All for love of that sweet face below, Dimpled o'er with smiles.

And the while the bonny bird did pour His full heart out freely o'er and o'er, 'Neath the morning skies, In the little childish heart below, All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, And shine forth in happy overflow From the blue, bright eyes.

Down the dell she tripped; and through the glade Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade, And from out the tree Swung and leaped and frolicked, void of fear, While bold blackbird piped, that all might hear, "Little Bell!" piped he.

Little Bell sat down amid the fern: "Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return; Bring me nuts!" quoth she.

Up, away, the frisky squirrel hies, Golden wood lights glancing in his eyes; And adown the tree, Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, In the little lap drop, one by one: Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun!

"Happy Bell!" pipes he.

Little Bell looked up and down the glade: "Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid, Come and share with me!"

Down came squirrel, eager for his fare, Down came bonny blackbird, I declare.

Little Bell gave each his honest share, Ah the merry three!

And the while these frolic playmates twain Piped and frisked from bough to bough again, 'Neath the morning skies, In the little childish heart below, All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, And shine out in happy overflow, From her blue, bright eyes.

By her snow-white cot at close of day, Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray: Very calm and clear Rose the praying voice to where, unseen, In blue heaven, an angel shape serene Paused awhile to hear.

"What good child is this," the angel said, "That, with happy heart, beside her bed Prays so lovingly?"

Low and soft, oh! very low and soft, Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft, "Bell, _dear_ Bell!" crooned he.

"Whom G.o.d's creatures love," the angel fair Murmured, "G.o.d doth bless with angels' care; Child, thy bed shall be Folded safe from harm. Love, deep and kind, Shall watch around, and leave good gifts behind, Little Bell, for thee."

THOMAS WESTWOOD.

_A Child of Twelve_

A child most infantine Yet wandering far beyond that innocent age In all but its sweet looks and mien divine.