Were I thy bride,
  Then the whole world beside
      Were not too wide
          To hold my wealth of love—­
      Were I thy bride! 
      Upon thy breast
  My loving head would rest,
      As on her nest
          The tender turtle dove—­
      Were I thy bride!

      This heart of mine
  Would be one heart with thine,
      And in that shrine
          Our happiness would dwell—­
      Were I thy bride! 
      And all day long
  Our lives should be a song: 
      No grief, no wrong
          Should make my heart rebel—­
      Were I thy bride!

      The silvery flute,
  The melancholy lute,
      Were night owl’s hoot
          To my low-whispered coo—­
      Were I thy bride! 
      The skylark’s trill
  Were but discordance shrill
      To the soft thrill
          Of wooing as I’d woo—­
      Were I thy bride!

      The rose’s sigh
  Were as a carrion’s cry
      To lullaby
          Such as I’d sing to thee,
      Were I thy bride! 
      A feather’s press
  Were leaden heaviness
      To my caress. 
          But then, unhappily,
      I’m not thy bride!

A MERRY MADRIGAL.

  Brightly dawns our wedding day;
      Joyous hour, we give thee greeting! 
      Whither, whither art thou fleeting? 
  Fickle moment, prithee stay! 
      What though mortal joys be hollow? 
      Pleasures come, if sorrows follow: 
  Though the tocsin sound, ere long,
    Ding dong!  Ding dong! 
      Yet until the shadows fall
      Over one and over all,
      Sing a merry madrigal—­
              Fal la!

Let us dry the ready tear;
Though the hours are surely creeping,
Little need for woeful weeping,
Till the sad sundown is near. 
All must sip the cup of sorrow—­
I to-day and thou to-morrow: 
This the close of every song—­
Ding dong!  Ding dong! 
What, though solemn shadows fall,
Sooner, later, over all? 
Sing a merry madrigal—­
Fal la!

THE LOVE-SICK BOY.

When first my old, old love I knew,
My bosom welled with joy;
My riches at her feet I threw;
I was a love-sick boy! 
No terms seemed too extravagant
Upon her to employ—­
I used to mope, and sigh, and pant,
Just like a love-sick boy!

  But joy incessant palls the sense;
    And love, unchanged will cloy,
  And she became a bore intense
    Unto her love-sick boy! 
  With fitful glimmer burnt my flame,
    And I grew cold and coy,
  At last, one morning, I became
    Another’s love-sick boy!

* * * * *

HENRY ALTEMUS’ PUBLICATIONS.

PHILADELPHIA.  PA.

STEPHEN.  A SOLDIER OF THE CROSS, by Florence Morse Kingsley, author of “Titus, a Comrade of the Cross.”  “Since Ben-Hur no story has so vividly portrayed the times of Christ.”—­The Bookseller. Cloth, 12mo., 369 pages. $1.25.