GERTRUDE'S GLOVE.

LIPS of a kid-skin deftly sewn,

A scent as through her garden blown,
The tender hue that clothes her dove,
All these, and this is Gerty's glove.

A glove but lately dofft, for look-
It keeps the happy shape it took

Warm from her touch! What gave the glow?
And where's the mould that shaped it so?

It clasp'd the hand, so pure, so sleek,
Where Gerty rests a pensive cheek,
The hand that when the light wind stirs,
Reproves those laughing locks of hers.

Your fingers four, you little thumb!
Were I but you, in days to come

I'd clasp, and kiss,-I'd keep her-go!
And tell her that I told you so.

FREDERICK LOCKER.

ANGELICA.

AIR is my Love, so fair,

I shudder with the sense

Of what a light the world would lose
Could she go hence.

Sweet is my Love, so sweet,

The leaves that, fold on fold, Swathe up the odours of the rose, Less sweetness hold.

True is my Love, so true,
Her heart is mine alone,
The music of its rhythmic beat
Throbs through my own.

Dear is my Love, so dear,
If I but hear her name,

My eyes with tears of rapture swim,
My cheek is flame.

Spare her, immortals, spare,
Till all our days are done—
Your heaven is full of angel forms,

Mine holds but one.

WILLIAM SAWYER.

A GARDEN IDYLL.

have loiter'd and laugh'd in the flowery croft,

We have met under wintry skies;

Her voice is the dearest voice, and soft Is the light in her wistful eyes; It is sweet in the silent woods, among

Gay crowds, or in any place

To hear her voice, to gaze on her young
Confiding face.

For ever may roses divinely blow,

And wine-dark pansies charm

By the prim box-path where I felt the glow

Of her dimpled, trusting arm;

And the sweep of her silk as she turn'd and smil'd,

A smile as fair as her pearls;

The breeze was in love with the darling child,
As it moved her curls.

She show'd me her ferns and woodbine sprays,

Foxglove and jasmine stars,

A mist of blue in the beds, a blaze

Of red in the celadon jars:

And velvety bees in convolvulus bells,
And roses of bountiful June-

Oh, who would think that summer spells
Could die so soon!

For a glad song came from the milking-shed,
On a wind of that summer south,

And the green was golden above her head,
And a sunbeam kiss'd her mouth;

Sweet were the lips where that sunbeam dwelt-
And the wings of Time were fleet

As I gazed; and neither spoke, for we felt
Life was so sweet!

And the odorous limes were dim above
As we leant on a drooping bough;
And the darkling air was a breath of love,
And a witching thrush sang "Now!"
For the sun dropt low, and the twilight grew
As we listen'd, and sigh'd, and leant-
That day was the sweetest day—and we knew
What the sweetness meant.

FREDERICK LOCKER.