Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high
Comes easy to him; and though he trip and fall,
He shall not blind his soul with clay.

LOOK THROUGH MINE EYES WITH THINE.

FROM THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER," BY ALFRED TENNYSON. OOK through mine eyes with thine. True wife,

L

Round my true heart thine arms entwine;

My other dearer life in life,

Look through my very soul with thine!
Untouched with any shade of years,

May those kind eyes forever dwell!
They have not shed a many tears,

Dear eyes, since first I knew them well.

Yet tears they shed: they had their part
Of sorrow for when time was ripe,
The still affection of the heart

Became an outward breathing type,
That into stillness passed again,

And left a want unknown before;
Although the loss that brought us pain,
That loss but made us love the more

With farther lookings on. The kiss,
The woven arms, seem but to be
Weak symbols of the settled bliss,

The comfort, I have found in thee:
But that God bless thee, dear-who wrought
Two spirits to one equal mind-

With blessings beyond hope or thought,

With blessings which no words can find.

M

MY LOVE.

BY GERALD MASSEY.

Y Love is true and tender,

Her eyes are rich with rest;

Her hair of dappled splendor,

The color I love best;

So sweet, so gay, so odorous warm,
She nestles here, heart-high,
A bounteous aspect, beauteous form,
But-just a wee bit sly.

My Love is no light dreamer,
A-floating with the foam;
But a brave life-sea swimmer,

With footing found in home.
My winsome wife, she's bright without,
And beautiful within ;

But I would not say quite without

The least wee touch of sin.

My Love is not an angel

In one or two small things;
But just a wifely woman

With other wants than wings.
You have some little leaven
Of earth, you darling dear!
If you were fit for heaven,
You might not nestle here.

O LAY THY HAND IN MINE, DEAR!

O

BY GERALD MASSEY.

LAY thy hand in mine, dear!

We're growing old, we're growing old ; But Time hath brought no sign, dear,

That hearts grow cold, that hearts grow cold.

'Tis long, long since our new love

Made life divine, made life divine;

But age enricheth true love,

Like noble wine, like noble wine.

And lay thy cheek to mine, dear,

And take thy rest, and take thy rest;
Mine arms around thee twine, dear,

And make thy nest, and make thy nest.

A many cares are pressing

On this dear head, on this dear head;

But Sorrow's hands in blessing

Are surely laid, are surely laid.

O lean thy life on mine, dear!

'Twill shelter thee, 'twill shelter thee.

Thou wert a winsome vine, dear,

On my young tree, on my young tree :

And so, till boughs are leafless,

And song-birds flown, and song-birds flown,

We'll twine, then lay us, griefless,

Together down, together down.

WOMAN'S VOICE.

BY EDWIN ARNOLD.

OT in the swaying of the summer trees,

NOT
Ν

When evening breezes sing their vesper hymn

Not in the minstrel's mighty symphonies,

Nor ripples breaking on the river's brim,

Is earth's best music; these may move awhile

High thoughts in happy hearts, and carking cares beguile.

But even as the swallow's silken wings,

Skimming the water of the sleeping lake, Stir the still silver with a hundred rings

So doth one sound the sleeping spirit wake To brave the danger, and to bear the harm

A low and gentle voice-dear woman's chiefest charm.

An excellent thing it is, and ever lent

To truth and love, and meekness; they who own This gift, by the all-gracious Giver sent,

Ever by quiet step and smile are known;

By kind eyes that have wept, hearts that have sorrowed— By patience never tired, from their own trials borrowed.

An excellent thing it is, when first in gladness
A mother looks into her infant's eyes,
Smiles to its smiles, and saddens to its sadness,
Pales at its paleness, sorrows at its cries;

Its food and sleep, and smiles and little joys—
All these come ever blent with one low gentle voice.

An excellent thing it is when life is leaving,

Leaving with gloom and gladness, joys and cares,

The strong heart failing, and the high soul grieving
With strangest thoughts, and with unwonted fears;
Then, then a woman's low, soft sympathy

Comes like an angel's voice to teach us how to die.

But a most excellent thing it is in youth,

When the fond lover hears the loved one's tone, That fears, but longs, to syllable the truth

How their two hearts are one, and she his own;

It makes sweet human music-oh! the spells

That haunt the trembling tale a bright-eyed maiden tells !

N

MY LOVE.

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

OT as all other women are

Is she that to my soul is dear;
Her glorious fancies come from far,
Beneath the silver evening-star,

And yet her heart is ever near.

Great feelings hath she of her own,
Which lesser souls may never know;

God giveth them to her alone,

And sweet they are as any tone

Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.

Yet in herself she dwelleth not,

Although no home were half so fair;

No simplest duty is forgot;

Life hath no dim and lowly spot

That doth not in her sunshine share.