I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire

you;

I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. Oh, your step's like the rain to the summer-vex'd farmer,

Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor; I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above

me,

Then, wandering, I'll wish you in silence to love

me.

III.

We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the

eyrie;

We'll tread round the rath on the track of the

fairy;

We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river, Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give

her.

Oh, she'll whisper you,-" Love, as unchangeably beaming,

And trust, when in secret, most tunefully streaming;

Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver, As our souls flow in one down eternity's river."

IV.

So come in the evening, or come in the morning; Come when you're look'd for, or come without

warning;

Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you!

Light is my heart since the day we were plighted; Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, “True lovers don't sever!"

THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS.

TOO LATE I STAYED.

Too late I stayed-forgive the crime-
Unheeded flew the hours:

How noiseless falls the foot of time
That only treads on flowers!

And who, with clear account, remarks
The ebbings of his glass,

When all its sands are diamond sparks,
That dazzle as they pass?

Ah! who to sober measurement
Time's happy swiftness brings,
When birds of paradise have lent
Their plumage to his wings?

ROBERT WILLIAM SPENCER.

A NICE CORRESPONDENT.

THE glow and the glory are plighted
To darkness, for evening is come;

The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted;
The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb.
I'm alone at my casement, for Pappy

Is summoned to dinner at Kew:

I'm alone, my dear Fred, but I'm happy,— I'm thinking of you.

I wish you were here. Were I duller
Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear;
I am dressed in your favorite color,-
Dear Fred, how I wish you were here!

I am wearing my lazuli necklace,

The necklace you fastened askew! Was there ever so rude or so reckless A darling as you?

I want you to come and pass sentence
On two or three books with a plot;
Of course you know “Janet's Repentance"?
I'm reading Sir Waverley Scott,

The story of Edgar and Lucy,

How thrilling, romantic, and true; The master (his bride was a goosey!) Reminds me of you.

To-day, in my ride, I've been crowning
The beacon; its magic still lures,
For there you discoursed about Browning,
That stupid old Browning of yours.
His vogue and his verve are alarming,
I'm anxious to give him his due;
But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming
A poet as you.

I heard how you shot at The Beeches,
I saw how you rode Chanticleer,

I have read the report of your speeches,
And echoed the echoing cheer.

There's a whisper of hearts you are breaking,

I envy their owners, I do!

Small marvel that Fortune is making

Her idol of you.

Alas for the world, and its dearly-
Bought triumph, and fugitive bliss!
Sometimes I half wish I were merely
A plain or a penniless miss;

But perhaps one is best with a measure
Of pelf, and I'm not sorry, too,

That I'm pretty, because it's a pleasure,
My dearest, to you.

Your whim is for frolic and fashion,
Your taste is for letters and art;
This rhyme is the commonplace passion
That glows in a fond woman's heart.

Lay it by in a dainty deposit

For relics, we all have a few!

Love, some day they'll print it, because it

Was written to you.

FREDERICK LOCKER.

HER LETTER.

I'm sitting alone by the fire,

Dress'd just as I came from the dance,
In a robe even you would admire-
It cost a cool thousand in France;
I'm be-diamonded out of all reason,
My hair is done up in a cue :
In short, sir," the belle of the season"
Is wasting an hour on you,