And often while for his face I sought
  I thought with a thrill I had found him,
By my little wiles and my coaxing caught,
Or even for gold ignobly bought,
With his arrows and bow around him.

But now my pulse gives a fresh, wild start,
  And a throb of joyous surprise, dear,
As I see him, armed with his subtle dart,
A fellow prisoner with my heart,
  In the depths of your hazel eyes, dear.

GUY WETMORE CARRYL.
Columbia Spectator

The Difference.

All in the days of long ago,
  When Grandfather a-wooing went,
He looked a gallant, dashing beau,
  And with his looks was well content

He rode beside My Lady’s chair
  With gracious salutation,
He vowed she was divinely fair
  And told his adoration.

But now, alas, poor Grandfather
  Would stand but sorry chances
Of passionately telling her
  His bosom’s sweetest fancies.

For since a wheel My Lady rides,
  The bravest, gayest courtier
Would lose her, if he weren’t besides
  A fairly rapid scorcher.

H.K.  WEBSTER.
Hamilton Literary Monthly.

The Lenten Maid.

Her wonted smiles are turned to frowns,
  Her laugh a sigh,
Sackcloth and ashes for ball gowns—­
  Ah, luckless I.

While worldly thought! away are gone,—­
  Her Lenten part,—­
Does Cupid blunt his darts upon
  A stony heart?

Ah, though her mirth and jollities
  She puts aside,
The silent laughter of her eyes
  She cannot hide.

S. R. KENNEDY.
Yale Record.

Wealth.

I like pretty maids flushed with joy,
  With glad hair blowing free. 
They smile right kind on many a boy,
  But only one on me. 
But I have a penny, a fiddle, and Joan,
  And my sweet Joan has me.

Meadow and flock, the wise folk said,
  It never were right to miss,
But my maid Joan has a kirtle red
  And a merry mouth to kiss. 
And I can fiddle and Joan can sing,
  And what were better than this?

The young men talk of getting and gold,
  And lands far over the sea. 
But I and my fiddle will never grow old,
  And this is the life for me. 
I have a penny, my fiddle, and Joan,
  And my sweet Joan has me.

ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH.
Smith College Monthly.

Jamie’s Word wi’ the Sea.

(A-WAITIN’ FER JINNIE.)

Ye’ll no fret ye mair the noo,
  Wull ye, sea? 
Like ye’ve dune the winter through,
  Roarin’ at the sands and me.

Ye were wearyin’ yersel’
  Till her bit,
Wee, licht fuitstep by ye fell. 
  Ay, but lookee noo! an’ quit!

Ken ye no the way she rins? 
  Hoo her hair,
Ower-muckle fer the pins,
  Blaws aboot her everywhere?

Ye’ll no stop yer clatt’rin’ din? 
  Puir blin’ thing! 
Ye’ll no see her happy rin;
  “Jamie!” ye’ll no hear her sing.