Its sweetbriar hedge-row, found her-found her there,
A summer blossom that the peering sun

Peep'd at through blossoms-that the summer airs
Waver'd down blossoms on, and amorous gold,
Warm as that rain'd on Danaë. With a step,
Soft as the sun-light, down the pebbled path
I pass'd; and, ere her eye could cease to count
The orchard daisies, in some summer mood
Dreaming (was I her thought?) my murmur'd "Kate"
Shocked up the tell-tale roses to her cheek,

And lit her eyes with starry lights of love
That dimm'd the daylight. Then I told her all,
And told her that her father's jovial jest

Should make her mine, and kiss'd her sunlit tears
Away, and all her little trembling doubts,
Until hope won her heart to happy dreams,
And all the future smiled with happy love.

Nor, till the still moon, in the purpling east
Gleam'd through the twilight, did we stay our talk,
Or part, with kisses, looks, and whisper'd words
Remember'd for a lifetime. Home I went,

And in my College rooms what blissful hopes

Were mine-what thoughts, that still'd to happy dreams,
Where Kate, the fadeless summer of my life,
Made my years Eden, and lit up my home
(The ivied rectory my sleep made mine)
With little faces and the gleams of curls,
And baby crows, and voices twin to hers.
O happy night! O more than happy dreams!
But with the earliest twitter from the eaves,
I rose, and, in an hour, at Clifford's yard,
As if but boating were the crown of life,
Forgetting Tennyson, and books, and rhymes,
Even my new tragedy upon the stocks,

I throng'd my brain with talks of lines and curves,
And all that makes a wherry sure to win,
And furbish'd up the knowledge that I had,
Ere study put my boyhood's feats away,
And made me book-worm; all that day, my hand
Grew more and more familiar with the oar,
And won by slow degrees, as reach by reach
Of the green river lengthen'd on my sight
Its by-laid cunning back; so, day by day,
From when dawn touch'd our elm-tops, till the moon
Gleam'd through the slumbrous leafage of our lawns,
I flash'd the flowing Isis from my oars

And dream'd of triumph and the prize to come,
And breathed myself, in sport, one after one,
Against the men with whom I was to row,
Until I fear'd but Chester-him alone.
So June stole on to July, sun by sun,

And the day came; how well I mind that day!
Glorious with summer, not a cloud abroad
To dim the golden greenness of the fields,
And all a happy hush about the earth,
And not a hum to stir the drowsing noon,
Save where along the peopled towing-paths,
Banking the river, swarm'd the city out,
Loud of the contest, bright as humming-birds,
Two winding rainbows by the river's brinks,
That flush'd with boats and barges, silken-awn'd,
Shading the fluttering beauties of our balls,
Our College toasts, and gay with jest and laugh,
Bright as their champagne. One, among them all,
My eye saw only; one, that morning, left
With smiles that hid the terrors of my heart,
And spoke of certain hope, and mock'd at fears-
One, that upon my neck had parting hung

Arms white as daisies-on my bosom hid

A tearful face that sobbed against my heart,
Fill'd with what fondness! yearning with what love.
O hope, and would the glad day make her mine!
O hope, was hope a prophet, truth alone?
There was a murmur in my heart of "Yes,"

That sung to slumber every wakening fear

That still would stir and shake me with its dread.
And now a hush was on the wavering crowd

That sway'd along the river, reach by reach,

A grassy mile, to where we were to turn

A barge moor'd mid-stream, flush'd with fluttering flags.
And we were ranged, and, at the gun, we went,
As in a horse-race, all at first a-crowd;
Then, thinning slowly, one by one dropt off,
Till, rounding the moor'd mark, Chester and I
Left the last lingerer with us lengths astern,
The victory hopeless. Then I knew the strife
Was come, and hoped 'gainst fear, and, oar to oar,
Strained to the work before me. Head to head
Through the wild-cheering river-banks we clove
The swarming waters, raining streams of toil;
But Chester gain'd, so much his tutor❜d strength
Held on, enduring-mine still waning more,
And parting with the victory, inch by inch,
Yet straining on, as if I strove with death,
Until I groan'd with anguish. Chester heard,
And turn'd a wondering face upon me quick,
And toss'd a laugh across, with jesting words:
"What, Ned, my boy, and do you take it so?
The cup's not worth the moaning of a man,
No, nor the triumph. Tush! boy, I must win."
Then from the anguish of my heart a cry

Burst: "Kate, O dearest Kate-O love-we lose!"

"Ah! I've a Kate, too, here to see me win,"
He answered: "Faith! my boy, I pity you."
"O if you lose," I answered, "you but lose
A week's wild triumph, and its praise and pride;
I, losing, lose what priceless years of joy!
Perchance a life's whole sum of happiness-
What years with her that I might call my wife!
Winning, I win her!" O thrice noble heart!
I saw the mocking laugh fade from his face;
I saw a nobler light light up his eyes;

I saw the flush of pride die into one
Of manly tenderness and sharp resolve;
No word he spoke; one only look he threw,
That told me all; and, ere my heart could leap
In prayers and blessings rain'd upon his name,
I was before him, through the tracking eyes
Of following thousands, heading to the goal,
The shouting goal, that hurl'd my conquering name
Miles wide in triumph, "Chester foiled at last!"
O how I turn'd to him; with what a heart!
Unheard the shouts-unseen the crowding gaze
That ring'd us. How I wrung his answering hand
With grasps that bless'd him, and with flush that told
I shamed to hear my name more loud than his,
And spurn'd its triumph. So I won my wife,
My own dear wife; and so I won a friend,
Chester, more dear than all but only her
And these, the small ones of my College dreams.
W. C. BENNETT.

[By kind permission of the author.]

LOVE-LETTER.

The evening skies are lightened,
The thunder clouds are gone;
The air is cooled and brightened
By shower and by sun;
And in this season clearest
My cares are shaken off,
While writing to my dearest
A letter, full of love.

O sadness, come to-morrow,
But leave me for to-day;
O drooping, tearful sorrow,

Your hour has passed away.
And selfishness and blindness,
For this while be forgot;
Yea, all the world's unkindness
Awhile shall touch me not.

But sweetest influences

Be round me as I write,
And bathe my sober senses

In dreams of deep delight:
That-as in golden armour-
My spirit may be seen
To take its way to charm her

Whom I have crowned my queen.

O Muse! whose mouth rehearses,
Upon thine Helicon,

All honey-sweet love-verses

That make melodious moan: