HARRY AND I.

WE stood where the snake-like ivy
Climbed over the meadow bars,

And watched as the young Night sprinkled
The sky with her cream-white stars.
The clover was red beneath us;

The air had a smell of June;
The cricket chirped in the grasses,
And the soft rays of the moon

Drew our shadows out on the meadow,
Distorted, and lank, and tall;

His shadow was kissing my shadow-
That was the best of all.

My heart leaped up as he whispered,
"I love you, Margery Lee,"

For then one arm of the shadow
Went round the shadow of me.

"I love you, Margery, darling,
Because you are young and fair;
For your eyes' bewildering blueness,
And the gold of your curling hair.
No queen has hands that are whiter;
No lark has a voice so sweet;
And your ripe young lips are redder
Than the clover at our feet.

"My heart will break with its fulness, Like a cloud o'ercharged with rain; O tell me, Margery, darling,

How long I must love in vain ? " With blushes and smiles I answered(I will not tell what) - just then I saw that his saucy shadow Was kissing my own again.

He promised to love me only-
I promised to love but him—
Till the moon fell out of the heavens,
And the stars with age grew dim.
O, the strength of man's devotion!
O, the vows a woman speaks!
"Tis years since that blush of rapture
Broke redly over my cheeks.

He found a gold that was brighter,
Than that of my floating curls,
And married a cross-eyed widow,
With a dozen grown-up girls.
And I did I pine and languish?
Did I weep my blue eyes sore?
Or break my heart, do you fancy,
For love that was mine no more?

I stand to-night in the meadow

Where Harry and I stood then,

And the moon has drawn two shadows
Out over the grass again.

And a low voice keeps repeating,
So close to my startled ear,
That the shadows melt together-
"I love you, Margery, dear.

""Tis not for your cheeks' rich crimson,
And not for your eyes' soft blue;
But because your heart is tender,
And noble, and pure, and true."
The voice is dearer than Harry's,
And so I am glad, you see,
He married the cross-eyed widow-
Instead of Margery Lee.

Josie S. Hunt.

THE SPARTAN BOY.

WHEN I the memory repeat
Of the heroic actions great,

Which, in contempt of pain and death,
Were done by men who drew their breath
In ages past, I find no deed

That can in fortitude exceed
The noble boy, in Sparta bred,
Who in the temple ministered.
By the sacrifice he stands,

The lighted incense in his hands;
Through the smoking censer's lid
Dropped a burning coal, which slid
Into his sleeve, and passed in
Between the folds, e'en to the skin.
Dire was the pain which then he proved,
But not for this his sleeve he moved,
Or would the scorching ember shake
Out from the folds, lest it should make
Any confusion, or excite

Disturbance at the sacred rite;
But close he kept the burning coal,
Till it eat itself a hole

In his flesh. The standers-by

Saw no sign, and heard no cry.

All this he did in noble scorn,

And for he was a Spartan born.

Young student who this story readest,
And with the same thy thoughts now feedest,
Thy weaker nerves might thee forbid
To do the thing the Spartan did;
Thy feebler heart could not sustain
Such dire extremity of pain.

But in this story thou mayst see
That may useful prove to thee.
By this example thou wilt find,
That to the ingenuous mind,
Shame can greater anguish bring
Than the body's suffering;

That pain is not the worst of ills,—
Not when it the body kills;
That in fair religion's cause,
For thy country, or the laws,
When occasion dire shall offer,
'Tis reproachful not to suffer.

Miss Lamb.