Nor thought that any love again might be
So deep and strong as that I felt for thee.

Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years,
And natural piety that leaned to heaven;
Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears,

Yet patient to rebuke when justly given;

Obedient, easy to be reconciled,

And meekly cheerful; such wert thou, my child!

Not willing to be left still by my side,

Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying; Nor leaving in thy turn, but pleased to glide

Through the dark room where I was sadly lying; Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek,

Watch the dim eye, and kiss the fevered cheek.

O boy! of such as thou are oftenest made
Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower,
No strength in all freshness, prone to fade,

And bending weakly to the thunder-shower;
Still, round the loved, thy heart found force to bind,
And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind!

Then THOU, my merry love,- bold in thy glee,
Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing,
With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free,-
Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing glancing,
Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth,

Like a young sunbeam to the gladdened earth!

Thine was the shout, the song, the burst of joy,

Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth; Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy,

And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth; And many a mirthful jest and mock reply Lurked in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye.

And thine was many an art to win and bless,

The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming; The coaxing smile, the frequent soft caress,

The earnest, tearful prayer all wrath disarming! Again my heart a new affection found,

But thought that love with thee had reached its bound.

At length THOU camest,— thou, the last and least, Nicknamed "the Emperor " by thy laughing brothers, Because a haughty spirit swelled thy breast,

And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others, Mingling with every playful infant wile

A mimic majesty that made us smile.

And O, most like a regal child wert thou!

An eye of resolute and successful scheming!
Fair shoulders, curling lips, and dauntless brow,
Fit for the world's strife, not for poet's dreaming;
And proud the lifting of thy stately head,
And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread.

Different from both! yet each succeeding claim
I, that all other love had been forswearing,
Forthwith admitted, equal and the same;

Nor injured either by this love's comparing,

Nor stole a fraction for the newer call,

--

But in the mother's heart found room for all!

THE SAD MOTHER

BY KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON

O when the half-light weaves
Wild shadows on the floor,
How ghostly.come the withered leaves
Stealing about my door!

I sit and hold my breath,

Lone in the lonely house;

Naught breaks the silence still as death,

Only a creeping mouse.

The patter of leaves, it may be,

But liker patter of feet,
The small feet of my own baby

That never felt the heat.

The small feet of my son,
Cold as the grave yard sod;
My little, dumb, unchristened one
That may not win to God.

"Come in, dear babe," I cry,
Opening the door so wide.
The leaves go stealing softly by;
How dark it is outside!

And though I kneel and pray
Long on the threshold-stone
The little feet press on their way,

And I am ever alone.

NUSAIB*

TRANSLATION OF C. J. LYALL FROM THE ARABIC

They said last night-to-morrow at first of dawning, or may be at eventide, must Laila go!

My heart at the word lay helpless, as lies a Kata in net night-long, and struggles with fast-bound wing. Two nestlings she left alone, in a nest far distant, a nest which the winds smite, tossing it to and fro. They hear but the whistling breeze, and stretch necks to greet her but she they await the end of her days is come!

So lies she, and neither gains in the night her longing, nor brings her the morning any release from pain. *By permission of the publishers of The Warner Library of the World's Best Literature.

LAMENT

BY RODEN NOEL

I am lying in thy tomb, love,

Lying in thy tomb,

Tho' I move within the gloom, love,

Breathe within the gloom!

Men deem life not fled, dear,

Deem my life not fled,

Tho' I with thee am dead, dear,

I with thee am dead,

O my little child.

What is the gray world, darling,

What is the gray world,

Where the worm lies curl'd, darling,

The deathworm lies curl'd?

They tell me of the spring, dear!

Do I want the spring?

Will she waft upon her wing, dear,

The joy-pulse of her wing,

Thy songs, thy blossoming,

O my little child.

For the hallowing of thy smile, love,

The rainbow of thy smile,

Gleaming for awhile, love,

Gleaming to beguile,

Replunged me in the cold, dear,

Leaves me in the cold.

And I feel so very old, dear,

Very, very old!

Would they put me out of pain, dear,

Out of all my pain,

Since I may not live again, dear,

Never live again!

I am lying in the grave, love,

In thy little grave,

Yet I hear the wind rave, love,