LULLABY.

  The maple strews the embers of its leaves
    O’er the laggard swallows nestled ’neath the eaves;
  And the moody cricket falters in his cry—­Baby-bye!—­
  And the lid of night is falling o’er the sky—­Baby-bye!—­
    The lid of night is falling o’er the sky!

  The rose is lying pallid, and the cup
  Of the frosted calla-lily folded up;
  And the breezes through the garden sob and sigh—­Baby-bye!—­
  O’er the sleeping blooms of summer where they lie—­Baby-bye!—­
    O’er the sleeping blooms of summer where they lie!

  Yet, Baby—­O my Baby, for your sake
  This heart of mine is ever wide awake,
  And my love may never droop a drowsy eye—­Baby-bye!—­
  Till your own are wet above me when I die—­Baby-bye!—­
    Till your own are wet above me when I die.

IN THE SOUTH.

  There is a princess in the South
    About whose beauty rumors hum
  Like honey-bees about the mouth
    Of roses dewdrops falter from;
      And O her hair is like the fine
      Clear amber of a jostled wine
      In tropic revels; and her eyes
      Are blue as rifts of Paradise.

  Such beauty as may none before
    Kneel daringly, to kiss the tips
  Of fingers such as knights of yore
    Had died to lift against their lips: 
      Such eyes as might the eyes of gold
      Of all the stars of night behold
      With glittering envy, and so glare
      In dazzling splendor of despair.

  So, were I but a minstrel, deft
    At weaving, with the trembling strings
  Of my glad harp, the warp and weft
    Of rondels such as rapture sings,—­
      I’d loop my lyre across my breast,
      Nor stay me till my knee found rest
      In midnight banks of bud and flower
      Beneath my lady’s lattice-bower.

  And there, drenched with the teary dews,
    I’d woo her with such wondrous art
  As well might stanch the songs that ooze
    Out of the mockbird’s breaking heart;
      So light, so tender, and so sweet
      Should be the words I would repeat,
      Her casement, on my gradual sight,
      Would blossom as a lily might.

THE OLD HOME BY THE MILL.

  This is “The old Home by the Mill”—­far we still call it so,
  Although the old mill, roof and sill, is all gone long ago. 
  The old home, though, and old folks, and the old spring, and a few
  Old cat-tails, weeds and hartychokes, is left to welcome you!

  Here, Marg’et, fetch the man a tin to drink out of’ Our spring
  Keeps kindo-sorto cavin’ in, but don’t “taste” anything! 
  She’s kindo agein’, Marg’et is—­“the old process,” like me,
  All ham-stringed up with rheumatiz, and on in seventy-three.

  Jes’ me and Marg’et lives alone here—­like in long ago;
  The childern all put off and gone, and married, don’t you know? 
  One’s millin’ way out West somewhere; two other miller-boys
  In Minnyopolis they air; and one’s in Illinoise.