Tell, oh, tell me, Grizzled-Face,
  Do your heart and head keep pace? 
  When does hoary Love expire,
  When do frosts put out the fire? 
  Can its embers burn below
  All that chill December snow? 
  Care you still soft hands to press,
  Bonny heads to smooth and bless? 
  When does Love give up the chase? 
  Tell, oh, tell me, Grizzled-Face!

      “Ah!” the wise old lips reply,
      “Youth may pass and strength may die;
      But of Love I can’t foretoken: 
      Ask some older sage than I!”

E.C.  STEDMAN.

A Sigh.

  It was nothing but a rose I gave her,—­
      Nothing but a rose
  Any wind might rob of half its savor,
      Any wind that blows.

  When she took it from my trembling fingers
      With a hand as chill,—­
  Ah, the flying touch upon them lingers,
      Stays, and thrills them still!

  Withered, faded, pressed between the pages,
      Crumpled fold on fold,—­
  Once it lay upon her breast, and ages
      Cannot make it old!

H.P.  SPOFFORD.

No More.

  This is the Burden of the Heart,
    The Burden that it always bore: 
  We live to love; we meet to part;
    And part to meet on earth No More: 
  We clasp each other to the heart,
    And part to meet on earth No More.

  There is a time for tears to start,—­
    For dews to fall and larks to soar: 
  The Time for Tears, is when we part
    To meet upon the earth No More: 
  The Time for Tears, is when we part
    To meet on this wide earth—­No More.

B.F.  WILLSON.

To a Young Girl Dying.

WITH A GIFT OF FRESH PALM-LEAVES.

This is Palm Sunday:  mindful of the day, I bring palm branches, found upon my way:  But these will wither; thine shall never die,—­ The sacred palms thou bearest to the sky!  Dear little saint, though but a child in years, Older in wisdom than my gray compeers! We doubt and tremble,—­we, with bated breath, Talk of this mystery of life and death:  Thou, strong in faith, art gifted to conceive Beyond thy years, and teach us to believe!

  Then take my palms, triumphal, to thy home,
  Gentle white palmer, never more to roam! 
  Only, sweet sister, give me, ere thou go’st,
  Thy benediction,—­for my love thou know’st! 
  We, too, are pilgrims, travelling towards the shrine: 
  Pray that our pilgrimage may end like thine!

T.W.  PARSONS.

The Port of Ships.[6]

  Behind him lay the gray Azores,
    Behind the Gates of Hercules;
  Before him not the ghost of shores,
    Before him only shoreless seas. 
  The good mate said:  “Now must we pray,
    For lo! the very stars are gone. 
  Brave Adm’ral speak,—­what shall I say?”
    “Why, say, ‘Sail on!  Sail on! and on!’”