"Now," she cried, "Give me thy sword, Julia.n.u.s!" And her son Unsheathed the blade (that had not left his side Save when it sought a foeman's blood to shed), Awed by her regal bearing, and obeyed.

With the white beauty of her firm fair hand She clasped the hilt; then severed, one by one, Her gold-flecked purple tresses. Strand on strand, Free e'en as foes had fallen by that blade, Robbed of its ma.s.sive wealth of curl and coil, Yet like some antique model, rose her head In all its cla.s.sic beauty.

"See!" she said, And pointed to the shining mound of hair; "Apollo makes swift answer to thy prayer, Chrispinus. Quick! now, soldiers, to thy toil!"

Forth from a thousand throats what seemed one voice Rose shrilly, filling all the air with cheer.

"Lo!" quoth the foe, "our enemies rejoice!"

Well might the Thracian giant quake with fear!

For while skilled hands caught up the gleaming threads And bound them into cords, a hundred heads Yielded their beauteous tresses to the sword, And cast them down to swell the precious h.o.a.rd.

Nor was the n.o.ble sacrifice in vain Another day beheld the giant slain.

WISHES FOR A LITTLE GIRL

What would I ask the kindly fates to give To crown her life, if I could have my way?

My strongest wishes would be negative, If they would but obey.

Give her not greatness. For great souls must stand Alone and lonely in this little world: Cleft rocks that show the great Creator's hand, Thither by earthquakes hurled.

Give her not genius. Spare her the cruel pain Of finding her whole life a prey for daws; Of hearing with quickened sense and burning brain The world's sneer-tinged applause.

Give her not perfect beauty's gifts. For then Her truthful mirror would infuse her mind With love for self, and for the praise of men, That lowers woman-kind.

But make her fair and comely to the sight, Give her more heart than brain, more love than pride.

Let her be tender-thoughted, cheerful, bright, Some strong man's star and guide.

Not vainly questioning why she was sent Into this restless world of toil and strife, Let her go bravely on her way, content To make the best of life.

ROMNEY

Nay, Romney, nay--I will not hear you say Those words again: "I love you, love you sweet!"

You are profane--blasphemous. I repeat, You are no actor for so grand a play.

You love with all your heart? Well, that may be; Some cups are fashioned shallow. Should I try To quench my thirst from one of those, when dry - I who have had a full bowl proffered me -

A new bowl br.i.m.m.i.n.g with a draught divine, One single taste thrilled to the finger-tips?

Think you I even care to bathe my lips With this poor sweetened water you call wine?

And though I spilled the nectar ere 'twas quaffed, And broke the bowl in wanton folly, yet I would die of my thirst ere I would wet My burning lips with any meaner draught.

So leave me, Romney. One who has seen a play Enacted by a star cannot endure To see it rendered by an amateur.

You know not what Love is--now go away!

MY HOME

This is the place that I love the best, A little brown house like a ground-bird's nest, Hid among gra.s.ses, and vines, and trees, Summer retreat of the birds and bees.

The tenderest light that ever was seen Sifts through the vine-made window screen - Sifts and quivers, and flits and falls On home-made carpets and gray-hung walls.

All through June, the west wind free The breath of the clover brings to me.

All through the languid July day I catch the scent of the new-mown hay.

The morning glories and scarlet vine Over the doorway twist and twine; And every day, when the house is still, The humming-bird comes to the window-sill.

In the cunningest chamber under the sun I sink to sleep when the day is done; And am waked at morn, in my snow-white bed, By a singing-bird on the roof o'erhead.

Better than treasures brought from Rome Are the living pictures I see at home - My aged father, with frosted hair, And mother's face like a painting rare Far from the city's dust and heat, I get but sounds and odours sweet.

Who can wonder I love to stay, Week after week, here hidden away, In this sly nook that I love the best - The little brown house, like a ground-bird's nest?

TO MARRY OR NOT TO MARRY?

A GIRL'S REVERIE

Mother says, "Be in no hurry, Marriage oft means care and worry."

Auntie says, with manner grave, "Wife is synonym for slave."

Father asks, in tones commanding, "How does Bradstreet rate his standing?"

Sister crooning to her twins, Sighs, "With marriage care begins."

Grandma, near life's closing days, Murmurs, "Sweet are girlhood's ways."

Maud, twice widowed ("sod and gra.s.s") Looks at me and moans "Alas!"

They are six, and I am one, Life for me has just begun.

They are older, calmer, wiser: Age should aye be youth's adviser.

They must know--and yet, dear me, When in Harry's eyes I see

All the world of love there burning - On my six advisers turning,

I make answer, "Oh, but Harry Is not like most men who marry.