Do not weep so, dear, heart-warm!
All was best as it befell.

If I say he did me harm,

I speak wild-I am not well;
All his words were kind and good.
He esteem'd me. Only, blood
Runs so faint in womanhood!

Then I always was too grave—-
Like the saddest ballad sung-
With that look, besides, we have
In our faces who die
young.
I had died, dear, all the same;
Life's long, joyous, jostling game
Is too loud for my meek shame.

We are so unlike each other,

Thou and I, that none could guess
We were children of one mother,
But for mutual tenderness.
Thou art rose-lined from the cold,
And meant verily to hold
Life's pure pleasures manifold;

I am pale; as crocus grows
Close beside a rose-tree's root:
Whosoe'er would reach the rose,
Treads the crocus under foot.
I, like May-bloom on thorn-tree,
Thou, like merry Summer bee-
Fit that I be pluck'd for thee!

Yet who plucks me? No one mourns ; I have lived my season out,

And now die of

my own

thorns

Which I could not live without.
Sweet, be merry! How the light
Comes and goes! If it be night,
Keep the candles in my sight.

Are there footsteps at the door?
Look out quickly. Yea or nay?
Some one might be waiting for

Some last word that I might say.
Nay? So best! So angels would
Stand off clear from deathly road,
Not to cross the sight of God.

Colder grow my

hands and feet.

When I wear the shroud I made, Let the folds lie straight and neat, And the rosemary be spread,

And, dear Bertha, let me keep
On my hand this little ring,
Which at nights, when others sleep,
I can still see glittering.

Let me wear it out of sight,

In the grave, where it will light
All the dark up, day and night.

On that grave drop not a tear!

Else, though fathom-deep the place, Through the woolen shroud I wear

I shall feel it on my face.
Rather smile there, blessèd one,
Thinking of me in the sun,
Or forget me smiling on!

Art thou near me? Nearer! so,
Kiss me close upon the eyes,
That the earthly light may go
Sweetly, as it used to rise

When I watched the morning gray
Strike, betwixt the hills, the way
He was sure to come that day.

So, no more vain words be said!
The hosannas nearer roll.
Mother, smile now on thy dead,
I am death-strong in my soul.
Mystic Dove alit on cross,

Guide the poor bird of the snows
Through the snow-wind, above loss!

Jesus, Victim, comprehending

Love's divine self-abnegation, Cleanse my love in its self-spending, And absorb the poor libation! Wind my thread of life up higher, Up, through angels' hands of fire! I aspire while I expire.

MRS. BROWNING.

MRS. WARD'S VISIT TO THE PRINCE.
Adapted by Miss Esther N. Wilson.

ALL, now, Miss Pettengill, I s'pose you've come

WALL,

over to hear about my seein' the Prince! You see, I'd been readin' all about the great doin's in the Statesman, and last week, a Tuesday mornin', I was over to son 'Bijah's, and found he was a goin' down to Bostin Wednesday to buy up his winter goods, and to see the Prince, too-goin' to kill two birds with one stone, you know; so, sez I, "Now, ' Bijah, I've been wantin' to go down to see niece Ruthy Ann-she's settled there, married to Mr. Wetherell, a rale fust-rate man, too—and I've a great mind to jest start off with you, and see the great sight for once myself." Wall, upon that, Martha she j'ined in, and 'Bijah said p'r'aps I'd better improve the chance. So I jest made up my mind on the spot, and purty soon started off for home to tell Arty how to look after things while I was gone. I don't go abroad very often, you know, Miss Pettengill, and sech an undertaken's consid'able.

But, arter all, it's something to see a real live young man that's goin' to be King of England arter his mother Victory's done wearing the crown; and you can tell on it to your children and your children's children all the rest of your life.

You see, it was about half arter eight o'clock in the mornin', and I jest thought I'd do what I meant to all along go and hev my little visit to see the Prince. I hadn't sed ennything about it to Bijah and the rest. but I had'nt gin it up. I tell you, Miss Pettengill, I'd gone all the way to Bostin a purpose to see Queen Victory's son, and I did'nt mean to come back to Bosc'wine

without havin' a talk with him. So I jest inquired of the folks I met, the way to the Revere House—I'd heard Ruthy tell the name of the tavern where he stopped-and went straight ahead, through thick and thin-and there was a master crowd-and at last I got to the door. 'Twas a powerful handsome great stone house, much as six or seven stories high-a good deal bigger'n the State House over to Concord ever begun to be.

Wall, nebbe the folks on the steps thought I belonged there was a boarder, or the landlord's wife, or something for they jest made way for me, and nobody sed a word till I got inside the great front entry, and went up stairs. As I was goin' along the long gallery, alookin' at the beautiful flowers they'd been and put there to make it look like a great flower garden, there stepped up a man dressed in a handsome dark-blue suit, with bright buttons, and a star on the left lappel of his coat, and white gloves on, and sez he: "Madam, this is the way to the Prince's rooms, and probably you've mistook it." Sez I back: “Its an accident a purpose, mister. Be you the landlord?" "No, ma'am," answered he; "I'm the perlice ossifer on duty here. Would you like to see Mr. Stevens?" "La, I thought most likely you was him yourself," sez I—for he was a proper handsome, large man, with great black whiskers and a rale. pleasant look to his eye. "Wall, yes, you may speak to him if you're a mind ter, for I come a puppose to ask him to show me the way to the Prince's room." "Hey you any message, arrant, ma'am?" asked he. "Nothin', Mister Perlice, only I come to have a little spell of talk with him. If he hain't got up, I ken wait, for I s'pose the young man is kinder gin out, up a