I watched her, saying never a word, For I would not waken those dreaming eyes.

The breath of the roses filled the air, And my thoughts were many, and far from wise.

At last I said to her, bending near, "Ah, Molly Lefevre, how sweet 'twould be, To ride on dreaming, all our lives, Alone with the roses--you and me."

Her sweet lips faltered, her sweet eyes fell, And, low as the voice of a Summer rill, Her answer came. It was--"Yes, perhaps-- But who would settle our carriage bill?"

The dying roses breathed their last, Our wheels rolled loud on the stones just then, Where the snow had drifted; the subject dropped.

It has never been taken up again.

A SONG.

Spring-time is coming again, my dear; Sunshine and violets blue, you know; Crocuses lifting their sleepy heads Out of their sheets of snow.

And I know a blossom sweeter by far That violets blue, or crocuses are, And bright as the sunbeam's glow.

But how can I dare to look in her eyes, Colored with heaven's own hue?

That wouldn't do at all, my dear, It really wouldn't do.

Her hair is a rippling, tossing sea; In its golden depths the fairies play, Beckoning, dancing, mocking there, Luring my heart away.

And her merry lips are the ripest red That ever addled a poor man's head, Or led his wits astray.

What wouldn't I give to taste the sweets Of those rose-leaves wet with dew!

But that wouldn't do at all, my dear, It really wouldn't do.

Her voice is gentle, and clear and pure; It rings like the chime of a silver bell, And the thought it wakes in my foolish head, I'm really afraid to tell.

Her little feet kiss the ground below, And her hand is white as the whitest snow That e'er from heaven fell.

But I wouldn't dare to take that hand, Reward for my love to sue; That wouldn't do at all, my dear, It really wouldn't do.

OLD PHOTOGRAPHS.

Old lady, put your gla.s.ses on, With polished lenses, mounting golden, And once again look slowly through The alb.u.m olden.

How the old portraits take you back To friends who once would 'round you gather-- All scattered now, like frosted leaves In bl.u.s.tering weather.

Why, who is this, the bright coquette?

Her eyes with Love's bright arrows laden-- "Poor Nell, she's living single yet, An ancient maiden."

And this, the fragile poetess?

Whose high soul-yearnings nought can smother-- "She's stouter far than I am now, A kind grandmother."

Who is this girl with flowing curls, Who on the golden future muses?

"What splendid hair she had!--and now A 'front' she uses."

And this? "Why, if it's not my own; And did I really e'er resemble That bright young creature? Take the book-- My old hands tremble.

"It seems that only yesterday We all were young; ah, how time pa.s.ses!"

Old lady, put the alb.u.m down, And wipe your gla.s.ses.

"LE DERNIER JOUR D'UN CONd.a.m.ne."

Old coat, for some three or four seasons We've been jolly comrades, but now We part, old companion, forever; To fate, and the fashion, I bow.

You'd look well enough at a dinner, I'd wear you with pride at a ball; But I'm dressing to-night for a wedding-- My own--and you'd not do at all.

You've too many wine-stains about you, You're scented too much with cigars, When the gas-light shines full on your collar, It glitters with myriad stars, That wouldn't look well at my wedding; They'd seem inappropriate there-- Nell doesn't use diamond powder, She tells me it ruins the hair.

You've been out on Cozzens' piazza Too late, when the evenings were damp, When the moon-beams were silvering Cro'nest, And the lights were all out in the camp.

You've rested on highly-oiled stairways Too often, when sweet eyes were bright, And somebody's ball dress--not Nellie's-- Flowed 'round you in rivers of white.

There's a reprobate looseness about you; Should I wear you to-night, I believe, As I come with my bride from the altar, You'd laugh in your wicked old sleeve, When you felt there the tremulous pressure Of her hand, in its delicate glove, That is telling me shyly, but proudly, Her trust is as deep as her love.

So, go to your grave in the wardrobe, And furnish a feast for the moth, Nell's glove shall betray its sweet secrets To younger, more innocent cloth.

'Tis time to put on your successor-- It's made in a fashion that's new; Old coat, I'm afraid it will never Sit as easily on me as you.

CHRISTMAS GREENS.

Oh, Lowbury pastor is fair and young, By far too good for a single life, And many a maiden, saith gossip's tongue, Would fain be Lowbury pastor's wife: So his book-marks are 'broidered in crimson and gold, And his slippers are, really, a "sight to behold."

That's Lowbury pastor, sitting there On the cedar boughs by the chancel rails; His face is clouded with carking care, For it's nearly five, the daylight fails-- The church is silent,--the girls all gone, And the Christmas wreaths not nearly done.

Two tiny boots crunch-crunch the snow, They saucily stamp at the transept door, And then up to the pillared aisle they go Pit-pat, click-clack, on the marble floor-- A lady fair doth that pastor see, And he saith, "Oh, bother, it isn't she!"

A lady in seal-skin--eyes of blue, And tangled tresses of snow-flecked gold-- She speaks, "Good gracious! can this be you, Sitting alone in the dark and cold?

The rest all gone! Why it wasn't right; These texts will never be done to-night."

She sits her down at her pastor's feet, And, wreathing evergreen, weaves her wiles, Heart-piercing glances bright and fleet, Soft little sighs, and shy little smiles; But the pastor is solemnly sulky and glum, And thinketh it strange that "she" doesn't come.

Then she tells him earnestly, soft and low, How she'd do her part in this world of strife, And humbly look to him to know The path that her feet should tread through life-- Her pastor yawneth behind his hat, And wondereth what she is driving at.

Crunch-crunch again on the snow outside, The pastor riseth unto his feet, The vestry door is opened wide, A dark-eyed maid doth the pastor greet, And that lady fair can see and hear, Her pastor kiss her, and call her "dear."

"Why, Maud!" "Why, Nelly!" those damsels cry; But lo, what troubles that lady fair?

On Nelly's finger there meets her eye The glow of a diamond solitaire, And she thinks, as she sees the glittering ring, "And so she's got him--the hateful thing!"

There sit they all 'neath the Christmas tree, For Maud is determined that she wont go The pastor is cross as a man can be, And Nelly would like to pinch her so, And they go on wreathing the text again-- It is "Peace on earth and good-will towards men."