Enlarged winds, that curl the flood,

Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take

That for an hermitage :
If I have freedom in my love

And in my soul am free,
Angels alone that soar above
Enjoy such liberty.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

BEAUTY AND TIME.

The Rose in the garden slipped her bud,
And she laughed in the pride of her youthful blood,
As she thought of the Gardener standing by-

He is old—so old ! And he soon will die !"

66

The full Rose waxed in the warm June air,
And she spread, and spread, till her heart lay bare;
And she laughed once more as she heard his tread-
“He is older now. He will soon be dead !”

But the breeze of the morning blew, and found That the leaves of the blown Rose strewed the

ground; And he came at noon, that Gardener old, And he raked them softly under the mould.

And I wove the thing to a random rhyme,
For the Rose is Beauty, the Gardener Time.

AUSTIN DOBSON,

WHEN she comes home again! A thousand ways
I fashion, to myself, the tenderness
Of my glad welcome; I shall tremble-yes;
And touch her, as when first in the old days
I touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraise
Mine eyes, such was my faint heart's sweet distress.
Then silence : And the perfume of her dress;
The room will sway a little, and a haze
Cloy eyesight--soulsight, even-for a space;
And tears—yes; and the ache here in the throat,
To know that I so ill deserve the place
Her arms make for me ; and the sobbing note
I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face
Again is hidden in the old embrace.

JAMES WHITCOMB Riley.

THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S.

(A proper new ballad of the country and the town.)

The ladies of St. James's

Go swinging to the play ; Their footmen run before them, With a

“Stand by ! Clear the way!” But Phyllida, my Phyllida !

She takes her buckled shoon, When we go out a-courting

Beneath the harvest moon.

The ladies of St. James's

Wear satin on their backs; They sit all night at Ombre,

With candles all of wax : But Phyllida, my Phyllida !

She dons her russet gown And runs to gather May dew

Before the world is down.

The ladies of St. James's

They're painted to the eyes ; Their white it stays forever,

Their red it never dies : But Phyllida, my Phyllida !

Her color comes and goes; It trembles to a lily,

It wavers to a rose.

The ladies of St. James's

With “ Mercy!” and with Lud !" They season all their speeches

(They come of noble blood): But Phyllida, my Phyllida !

Her shy and simple words Are sweet as, after rain drops,

The music of the birds.

The ladies of St. James's

They have their fits and freaks ; They smile on you—for seconds,

They frown on you—for weeks : But Phyllida, my Phyllida!

Come either storm or shine, From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide

Is always true-and mine.

My Phyllida ! my Phyllida !

I care not though they heap
The hearts of all St. James's

And give me all to keep;
I care not whose the beauties

Of all the world may be,
For Phyllida-for Phyllida

Is all the world to me!

AUSTIN DOBSON.