The Duel.

    Ten paces—­one, two, three, and fire! 
    Two gallants have their heart’s desire.

    One of them dies, the other laughs;
    The seconds smile, the doctor chaffs.

    A woman, smiling, dreams she’s wed
    To—­hush, to the very one that’s dead.

The Shroud.

    The snow came softly, silently, down
    Into the streets of the dark old town;
    And lo! by the wind it was swept and piled
    On the sleeping form of a beggar-child.

    It kissed her cheek, and it filled her hair
    With crystals that looked like diamonds there;
    And she dreamed that she was a fair young bride
    In a pure white dress by her husband’s side.

    A blush crept over her pale young face,
    And her thin lips smiled with a girlish grace;
    But the old storm-king made his boast aloud
    That his work that night was weaving a shroud.

Love’s Return.

    Love has come back—­ah me, the joy!—­
      Greater than when Love began
    To wound my heart.  The jocund boy! 
      Love has come back a gray-haired man.

    His eyes are red with tears of woe,
      His cheeks are pale, and his heart is sore;
    But Love has come back at last, and, oh! 
      Love will be faithful evermore.

One Wish.

    My thoughts are gliding down the stream,
      Ah, faster than the river flows;
    And idly in my heart I dream
      Of islands where the lotus grows.

    I fear not rapids, waterfall,
      Or whirlpool leading down to death,
    If love but my tired heart enthrall,
      And I may sip a woman’s breath.

    I care not what may be my fate. 
      Roll on, mad river, to the sea;
    Drown all ambition, pride, and hate,—­
      But leave one woman’s love to me.

For Me.

    I heard her song,
      Low in the night,
    From out her casement steal away,
      Nor thought it wrong
      To steal a sight
    Of her—­and lo! she knelt to pray.

      I heard her say,
      “Forgive him, Lord;
    Such as he seems he cannot be.” 
      I turned away,
      Myself abhorred. 
    She prayed—­and oh! she prayed for me.

To a Water-color.

    Sweet Phyllis, maid of yesterday,
      Come down from out that frame,
    And tell me why you looked so gay—­
      Likewise your other name.

    Had bold Sir Plume confessed his love
      And asked you if you’d wed? 
    And had he called you “Lovey-dove”? 
      And how long are you dead?

    Where did you get that wondrous gown,
      Those patches, and that hair? 
    And how were things in London town
      The last time you were there?

    And did you die a maid or wife,
      Your husband lord or knave? 
    And how did you like this jolly life? 
      And how do you like the grave?