Calm and grave the maiden stood;
  Eyed that weary mother long,
Drooping form, despairing face,
  Eyes pathetic with great wrong. 
“Enter,” gently then she spake,
  “Peace be thine from skies above,
Only I have closed my door,
  Closed and barred it fast from Love.”

By the hearthstone warm and bright
 Sits the mother crooning low;
Ah! an arrow’s silver gleam,
  Flashes of a golden bow! 
Soft she sways a dimpled child
  Winged with down, and innocent;
“Hush thee, Eros,—­sleep, my son,”
  Sings her voice in glad content.

M. E. H. EVERETT.
Madisonensis.

With My Cigar.

With my cigar I sit alone,
Alone in twilight’s undertone,
  With wav’ring shadows growing deep,
  While long-forgotten faces peep
Midst curling mists of smoke, now blown
Into a frame that doth enthrone
A face that from my heart hath grown. 
  Sweet mem’ries o’er my being creep,
        With my cigar.

Those hazel eyes on me have shone,
Those roguish lips have pressed my own,
  And this the harvest that I reap! 
  And this the sweetness that I keep,
To wake, to find the vision flown
        With my cigar!

JOHN CLINTON ANTHONY.
Brunonian.

To Waltz with Thee.

To waltz with thee, my pretty belle,
To silver music’s magic spell,
  Was such a strange unmixed delight
  That I had wished the merry night
Into eternity might swell.

* * * *

Terpsichore ne’er danced so well! 
Can all the Graces in thee dwell? 
  My soul was raised to such a height
      To waltz with thee.

Enchanting strains now rose, now fell,
Thy charms what raptures would compel! 
  Thy feet were winged, thy figure slight,
  Thy winning tread, entrancing, light,—­
What bliss to me that night befell,
      To waltz with thee!

GEORGE B. ZUG.
Amherst Literary Monthly.

To Maude’s Guitar.

Sweet guitar, so old thou art
  Thou seemest strange to modern eyes,
Yet in thy broad-backed cavern-heart
  The softest music hidden lies.

Whene’er thy strings with gentle hand
  I lightly sweep in deep-bassed chords,
There comes a breath of foreign lands
  That seems to sing soft Spanish words.

Was Caballero’s passion deep
  E’er sung to thy rich-chorded bass? 
Didst ever break senora’s sleep
  By music ’neath her window-case?

Somewhere—­sometime, a song was sung
  By lover bold or maiden fair,
So sweet, thou hid’st it deep among
  Thy soulful strings, and kept it there.

Whoe’er it was, that distant day,
  That loved to strike thy mellow strings,
Whoever sang that sweet love-lay,
  Its echo still within thee rings.

Though Maude may vow she loves me not,
  And jolly glees may lightly play,
I look beyond the surface thought,
  And hear that echoing old love-lay.