BY THE WICKET-GATE.

I ROSE up, and, following her dark eyes,
Felt earth as air beneath me, till I reach'd
The wicket-gate, and found her standing
there.

There sat we down upon a garden-mound,
Two mutually enfolded; Love, the third,
Between us, in the circle of his arms
Enwound us both; and over many a range
Of waning lime the grey cathedral towers,
Across a hazy glimmer of the mist,
Reveal'd the shining windows: from them
clash'd

The bells we listen'd: with the time we play'd:

We spoke of other things; we coursed about The subject most at heart, more near and

near.

Then, in that time and place, I spoke to her,
Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine own,
Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear,

Requiring at her hand the greatest gift,
A woman's heart, the heart of her I loved;
And in that time and place she answer'd
me,

And in the compass of three little words,
More musical than ever came in one,
The silver fragments of a broken voice,
Made me most happy, faltering "I am thine."
Tennyson.

THE LOVERS' MEETING.

IN the glinting of the gloaming, With its streaks of golden red, With its gathering purple curtains, With the evening star o'erhead d;

Like a silver gem instudded
On a bank of velvet black,
Showing in the amber setting,
Of the dying daylight's track,-

Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover,

I've conn'd thee an answer, it waits thee to-night.

By the sycamore pass'd he, and thro' the white clover,

Then all the sweet speech I had fashion'd took flight:

But I'll love him more, more
Than e'er wife loved before,
Be the days dark or bright.
Jean Ingelow.

LOVE'S MEETING-PLACE.

How many a magic Love doth quite
Perform in one short summer night-

Wherein is scarcely space for dreams,
While, on each side the world, it seems
The days nigh join with amber hands,
Over the dimly gleaming lands,

Where under thin-veil'd shifting sky Gleams many a flower with white eye Unclosed!-On moonlight paven path How many a meeting-place Love hathWhere dreams, or yearning thoughts that thrill,

Parted in vain, may find their will, And come together as they range, And fall into sweet interchange

Like waves with waves, whereof some sign Felt at the trembling ripple-line Of either brimming heart, doth bring A rich unwonted comforting!

Arthur W. E. O'Shaughnessy.

LOYERS' TRYSTING-PLACE.

YON wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide,

That nurse in their bosom the youth o'the Clyde,

Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed,

And the shepherd tends the flock as he pipes on his reed.

Not Gowrie's rich valleys, nor Forth's sunny shores,

To me hae the charms o' yon wild mossy

moors;

For there by a lanely, sequester'd clear stream,

Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream.

Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path,

Ilk stream foaming down its ain green narrow strath;

For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, While o'er us, unheeded, flee the sweet hours o' love.

She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair;
O' nice education but sma' is her share ;
Her parentage humble as humble can be ;
But I loe the dear lassie because she loes
me.

To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize,

In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs?

And when wit and refinement hae polished her darts,

They dazzle our een as they flee to our hearts.

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond sparkling e'e,

Has lustre outshining the diamond to me; And the heart-beating love, as I'm clasp'd in her arms,

Oh, these are my lassie's all - conquering charms!

Robert Burns.

MEETING OF LOVERS.

Of all the things a man may have
Before he cometh to the grave,—

Of all the joys that he may win
This is the richest to possess
One yearned-for hour in loneliness,
Beside one's love, in some fair clime,
In some fair purple autumn time;
For quite shall be forgotten then
The pains and labours among men,
The bitter things of thought and fear;
The bitter ends of hope; and, near,
Quite at one's side, yea, on one's heart,
Yea, touching, with no more to part,
The yearning hands or looks that meet,
Shall seem the often dreamed-of sweet
Much more than all the glowing things
To which the fondest memory clings-

Much more than any rapturous past: And this-the fairest moment, sure, In each man's life-it shall endure Some noon; while creeping twilight dims Slowly some flower's purple rims,

Or some green distance suffers change
Fading before us : then this strange
And precious rapture-it shall pass,
And never come again, alas!

Nay, for there shall be bliss and bliss,
And love and love, and kiss and kiss,
And many a pleasant touch of hands,
And place for love in many lands,
And communings of heart with heart,
Much to be gained, much to impart,-
All these; but surely, never more
Doth any time at all restore
That faded purple of delight,

And the same sweet and the same sight,
As when one's love in that fair place
Blush'd with strange crimson, face to face,
With every inward passionate thought,
Into real living blisses wrought,

And the heart, through some mystery, Seem'd filling earths and heavens to beYea, things and spaces dimly knownWith endless feelings of its own.

Hereafter, surely I may say,
That, many an hour in night or day,
Those lovers knew some precious part
Of all the joy that heart with heart
Can so beget. Often they came,
And found that silken place the same,
In purple growing glooms at eve;
And sat while pleasure would deceive
Their thoughts with many a changing dream
Wrought of each momentary gleam
Of the unearthly twilight blue,

That seem'd to make the world anew,
Like some enamell'd picture fair
With jewell'd stars and leaves: now there,
And now, in wanderings amid
The pleasant flower-paths, half-hid
Beneath safe shadows of the trees,
They dream'd some dream enough to please
All silently; or, one by one,

In their own soft and murmurous tone,
Spoke all the spells that Love hath set
In wild sweet words, that ever fret
The lips of lovers, till his gold
And honied secret be all told.

Arthur W. E. O'Shaughnessy.

THE GARDEN WHERE WE MET.

HERE'S the garden she walk'd across,
Arm in my arm, such a short while since :
Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss
Hinders the hinges and makes them
wince;

She must have reach'd this shrub ere she turn'd,

As back with that murmur the wicket

swung ;

For she laid the poor snail my chance foot spurn'd,

To feed and forget it the leaves among.

Down this side of the gravel-walk

She went while her robe's edge brush'd the
box:

And here she paused in her gracious talk
To point me a moth on the milk-white flox.
Rose, ranged in a valiant row,

I will never think that she pass'd you by! She loves you, noble roses, I know,

But yonder, see where the rock-plants lie! This flower she stopp'd at, finger on lip,

Stoop'd over, in doubt as settling its claim; Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, Its soft meandering Spanish name. What a name! was it love or praise?

Speech half-asleep, or song half-awake? I must learn Spanish one of these days, If only for that slow sweet name's sake.

Roses, if I live and do well,

I may bring her one of these days To fix you fast with as fine a spell,

Fit you each with his Spanish phrase; But do not detain me now; for she lingers There like sunshine over the ground, And ever I see her soft white fingers Searching after the bud she found.

Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not,

Stay as you are and be lovèd for ever! Bud, if I kiss you, 'tis that you blow not;

Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never! For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle,

Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn and down they nestleIs not the dear mark still to be seen?