Look at her closely, is she not fair, With exquisite features, rich silken hair And the beautiful, child-like, trusting eyes Of one in the world's ways still unwise.

The wreath late carefully placed on her brow She has flung on a distant foot-stool now; The flowers, exhaling their fragrance sweet, Lie crushed and withering at her feet; Gloves and tablets she has suffered to fall-- She seems so weary after the ball!

Ah, more than weary! How still and white, With rose-tipped fingers entwined so tight: A grieved, pained look on that forehead fair, One which it never before did wear, And soft eyes gleam through a mist of tears, Telling of secret misgivings and fears.

Say, what is it all? Why, some April care, Or some childish trifle, baseless as air; For the griefs that call forth girlhood's tears Would but win a smile in maturer years, When the heart has learned, 'mid pain and strife, Far sterner lessons from the book of life.

Ah! far better for thee, poor child, I ween, Had thy night been spent in some calmer scene, Communing with volume or friend at will, Or in innocent slumber, calm and still; Thou would'st not feel so heart-weary of all As thou to night thou feelest, "after the ball!"

THE YOUNG NOVICE.

The lights yet gleamed on the holy shrine, the incense hung around, But the rites were o'er, the silent church re-echoed to no sound; Yet kneeling there on the altar steps, absorbed in ardent prayer, Is a girl, as seraph meek and pure--as seraph heav'nly fair.

The blue eyes, veiled by the lashes long that rest on that bright cheek Are humbly bent, while the snow-white hands are clasped in fervor meek, While in the cla.s.sic lip and brow, each feature of that face, And graceful high-bred air, is seen she comes of n.o.ble race.

But, say, what means that dusky robe, that dark and flowing veil, The silver cross--oh! need we ask? they tell at once their tale: They say that, following in the path that fair as she have trod, She hath renounced a fleeting world, to give herself to G.o.d.

Her sinless heart to no gay son of this earth hath she given, Her's is a higher, holier lot, to be the Bride of Heaven; And the calm peace of the cloister's walls, abode of humble worth, Is the fit home for that spotless dove, too fair, too pure for earth.

THE TRANSPLANTED ROSE TREE.

Amid the flowers of a garden glade A lovely rose tree smiled, And the sunbeams shone, the zephyrs played, 'Round the gardens favorite child; And the diamond dew-drops glistening fell On each rose's silken vest, Whilst light winged bee and b.u.t.terfly gay On the soft leaves loved to rest.

But one morn while a sunbeam bright Lit up its delicate bloom, And a zephyr lightly hovered 'round, On wings of sweet perfume, A strong hand came, and ruthlessly Tore up the parent tree, And bore it off, with each fair young rose, From b.u.t.terfly, zephyr and bee.

What mattered it that an antique vase Of _Sevres_ costly and old, Was destined, henceforth, in royal State, Its fair young form to hold?

What mattered it that the richest silks Of the far famed Indian loom, With priceless marbles paintings rare, Adorned its prison room?

It even pined for the garden free, For its pleasant friends of yore, And brooded over the bitter thought, It would never see them more: And its young head daily lowlier drooped Upon its sorrowing breast, While it chafed against the kindly hand That tended and caressed.

But Autumn came with angry storms, With clouded and wintry skies-- Rudely it touched the lovely flowers, And withered their brilliant dyes; The sunbeam false hid its glowing glance, Or with chilling coldness shone; The zephyr fled to Southern climes, And the flowers died alone

Then the rose tree looked on the gloomy earth, On each withered tree and flower, And it warmly blessed the loving care Of its new, protecting power:-- No more it mourned past Summer joys, But brightly blossomed on, With beauty brighter than when once, The garden's queen, it shone.

FLIRTATION.

Yes, leave my side to flirt with Maude, To gaze into her eyes, To whisper in her ear sweet words, And low impa.s.sioned sighs; And though she give you glance for glance, And smile and scheme and plot, You cannot raise a jealous thought, I know you love her not.

Now turn to laughing Lulu, That Witty, gay coquette, With her teeth of shining pearl, Her eyes and hair of jet: With a mirthful smile imprison Her hand within your own, And softly press it--what care I?

You love but me alone.

To Ida's chair you wander, You're bending o'er her now, Until your own dark curls have brushed Against her queenly brow; In vain she strives to bind you With fascinating spell; For if sharply now I suffer, You suffer too as well.

This fit of gay coquetry Is meant, ah! well I know To avenge my quiet flirting At our ball a night ago, With that winning, handsome stranger,-- Remember, Harry dear, 'Twas yourself who introduced him, Yourself who brought him here.

Let us cease this cruel warfare, Come back to me again!

Ah, what do we reap from flirting But heartaches, mutual pain?

You'll forgive my past shortcomings-- Be tender as of yore And we both will make a promise To henceforth flirt no more.

HARRY (ENGAGED TO BE MARRIED) TO CHARLEY (WHO IS NOT).

To all my fond rhapsodies, Charley, You have wearily listened, I fear; As yet not an answer you've given Save a shrug, or an ill-concealed sneer; Pray, why, when I talk of my marriage, Do you watch me with sorrowing eye?

'Tis you, hapless bachelor, Charley, That are to be pitied--_not I!_

You mockingly ask me to tell you, Since to bondage I soon must be sold, Have I wisely chosen my fetters, Which, at least, should be forged of pure gold.

Hem! the sole wealth my love possesses Are her tresses of bright golden hair, Pearly teeth, lips of rosiest coral, Eyes I know not with what to compare.

Don't talk about all I surrender-- My club, champagne dinners, cigars, My hand at _ecarte_, my harmless Flirtations with Opera "stars."

Think of the pleasant home, Charley-- Home! I utter the word with just pride-- Its music, soft lights, countless comforts, Over which she will smiling preside.

And picture in fancy the welcome That will greet my arrival each night!

How she'll help me to take off my wrappings With her dear little fingers so white; The sweet silvery voice that will utter The airiest nothings with grace, The smiles that will dimple all over That loving and lovely young face.

If sickness should ever o'ertake me, O! just think how cherished I'll be-- What loving cares, gentle caresses, Shall be showered on fortunate me; While you in some lone, gloomy attic, To dull death posting off at quick pace, Will encounter no tokens of pity Save the smirk on some pert waiter's face.

And who, perhaps, twelve hours after, Bringing up your weak tea and dry toast, Will look in, find you "_gone,_" and drawl forth, "Number ten has just given up the ghost."

Then, Charley, to good counsel listen, Brave not an old bachelor's fate, But, doing as I've done, go marry A loving and loveable mate.

A MODERN COURTSHIP.

Why turn from me thus with such petulant pride, When I ask thee, sweet Edith, to be my bride; When I offer the gift of heart fond and true, And with loyalty seek thy young love to woo?

With patience I've waited from week unto week, And at length I must openly, candidly speak.

But why dost thou watch me in doubting surprise, Why thus dost thou raise thy dark, deep, melting eyes?

Can'st thou wonder I love thee, when for the last year We have whispered and flirted--told each hope and fear; When I've lavished on thee presents costly and gay, And kissed thy fair hands at least six times each day?

What! Do I hear right? So those long sunny hours Spent wand'ring in woods or whispering in bowers, Our love-making ardent in prose and in rhyme, Was just only a method of pa.s.sing the time!

A harmless flirtation--the fashion just now, To be closed, by a smile, or a jest, or a bow!