MOTHERHOOD

She laid it where the sunbeams fall
Unscann'd upon the broken wall.
Without a tear, without a groan,
She laid it near a mighty stone,
Which some rude swain had haply cast
Thither in sport, long ages past,
And Time with mosses had o'erlaid,
And fenced with many a tall grass-
blade,

And all about bid roses bloom
And violets shed their soft perfume.
There, in its cool and quiet bed,
She set her burden down and fled:
Nor flung, all eager to escape,
One glance upon the perfect shape,
That lay, still warm and fresh and fair,
But motionless and soundless there.

No human eye had mark'd her pass
Across the linden-shadow'd grass
Ere yet the minster clock chimed seven:
Only the innocent birds of heaven-
The magpie, and the rook whose nest
Swings as the elm-tree waves his
crest-

And the lithe cricket, and the hoar And huge-limb'd hound that guards the door,

Look'd on when, as a summer wind
That, passing, leaves no trace behind,
All unapparell'd, barefoot all,
She ran to that old ruin'd wall,
To leave upon the chill dank earth
(For ah! she never knew its worth)
'Mid hemlock rank, and fern, and ling,
And dews of night, that precious thing!

And there it might have lain forlorn
From morn till eve, from eve to morn:
But that, by some wild impulse led,
The mother, ere she turn'd and fled,
One moment stood erect and high;
Then pour'd into the silent sky
A cry so jubilant, so strange,
That Alice as she strove to range

Her rebel ringlets at her glassSprang up, and gazed across the grass; Shook back those curls so fair to see, Clapp'd her soft hands in childish glee, And shriek'd-her sweet face all aglow, Her very limbs with rapture shaking

"My hen has laid an egg, I know; And only hear the noise she's making!"

CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.

A little hen-minded?

SONNET FOR A PICTURE

That nose is out of drawing. With gasp,

She pants upon the passionate lips that ache

With the red drain of her own

mouth, and make

A monochord of colour. Like an asp, One lithe lock wriggles in his rutilant

grasp,

Her bosom is an oven of myrrh, to bake

Love's warm white shewbread to a browner cake.

The lock his fingers clench has burst its hasp.

The legs are absolutely abominable.

Ah! what keen overgust of wild-eyed

woes

Flags in that bosom, flushes in that nose?

Nay! Death sets riddles for desire to spell,

Responsive. What red hem earth's passion sews,

But may be ravenously unripped in hell? A. C. SWINBURNE.

Compared to this conception, the Futurist paintings look like weak tea with milk in it.