THEOPHILE MARZIALS.

SONG.

1850

THERE'S one great bunch of stars in
heaven

That shines so sturdily,
Where good Saint Peter's sinewy hand
Holds up the dull gold-wroughten
key.

There's eke a little twinkling gem

As green as beryl-blue can be,
The lowest bead the Blessed Virgin
Shakes a-telling her rosary.

There's one that flashes flames and fire,
No doubt the mighty rubicel,
That sparkles from the centre point
I' the buckler of stout Raphael.

And also there's a little star

So white a virgin's it must be;Perhaps the lamp my love in heaven Hangs out to light the way for me.

A PASTORAL.

FLOWER of the medlar,
Crimson of the quince,

I saw her at the blossom-time,
And loved her ever since!

She swept the draughty pleasance,
The blooms had left the trees,
The whilst the birds sang canticles,
In cheery symphonies.
Whiteness of the white rose,

Redness of the red,

She went to cut the blush-rose-buds

To tie at the altar-head;
And some she laid in her bosom,

And some around her brows,
And as she past, the lily-heads
All beck'd and made their bows.
Scarlet of the poppy,

Yellow of the corn,
The men were at the garnering,
A-shouting in the morn;
I chased her to a pippin-tree,-

The waking birds all whist,-
And oh! it was the sweetest kiss

That I have ever kiss'd.

Marjorie, mint, and violets
A-drying round us set,
'Twas all done in the faïence-room
A-spicing marmalet;
On one tile was a satyr,

On one a nymph at bay,
Methinks the birds will scarce be

PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.

1850-1887.

[BORN in London in 1850. Son of Dr. Westland Marston, poet and dramatist. When he s three years of age he received, while at play with other children, a blow in one of his

eyes,

which

finally, in 1871, resulted in total blindness. He began to compose at an early age, and his first

age, and

volume of poems, Song Tide, appeared in 1871, when he was only twenty-one years of speedily reached a second edition. In 1873 he visited Italy. In 1874 his second volume of port more or less for English periodicals. Since 1876 he has been a frequent contributor to American All in All, appeared. Soon after, he became a contributor to Scribner's Magazine, and also wrote His third volume, Wind-Voices, was published in the autumn of 1883, and has been republished in this country.]

periodical literature both in prose and verse.

PURE SOULS.

PURE Souls that watch above me from

afar,

To whom as to the stars I raise my

MISS A: MARY F. ROBINSON.

1857

[BORN at Leamington, Feb. 27, 1857: educated in Belgium, at Brusseis, and in Italy, and completed with literary and classical studies at University College, London. Her first volume of poems, entitled A Handful of Honeysuckles, appeared in 1878: The Crowned Hippolytus, 1881; The New Arcadia, 1884. She is the author of several prose works, Janet Fisher, Arden, Lif of Emily Bronté, and has also contributed some essays to German periodicals.]

LE ROI EST MORT.

AND shall I weep that Love's no more,
And magnify his reign?
Sure never mortal man before

Would have his grief again.
Farewell the long-continued ache,
The days a-dream, the nights awake,
I will rejoice and merry make,
And never more complain.

King Love is dead and gone for aye,
Who ruled with might and main,
For with a bitter word one day,
I found my tyrant slain,
And he in Heathenesse was bred,
Nor ever was baptized, 'tis said,
Nor is of any creed, and dead
Can never rise again.

LOVE'S EPIPHANY.

TREAD Softly here- for Love has passed this way!

Ay, even while I laughed to scorn His

name

And mocked aloud: There is no Love!

Love came.

The air was glorious with an added day,
I saw the heavens opened far away,
And forth with bright blown hair and
eyes a-flame,

With lyre-shaped wings, filled with the
wind's acclaim,

Flew Love and deigned a moment here

to stay.

I fell upon my face and cried in fear,

O Love! Love! Love! my King and
God!

But when I look'd He was no longer

near.

Since then, I watch beside this grass

He trod,

And pray all day, all night, for any pain
Love can inflict, so He will come again.

PARADISE FANCIES.

LAST night I met mine own true love
Walking in Paradise,

A halo shone above his hair,
A glory in his eyes.

We sat and sang in alleys green
And heard the angels play,

Believe me, this was true last night,
Though it is false to-day.

Through Paradise garden
A minstrel strays,
An old golden viol

For ever he plays.

Birds fly to his head,

Beasts lie at his feet,
For none of God's angels
Make music so sweet.

And here, far from Zion
And lonely and mute,
I listen and long

For my heart is the lute.