In my swift course, but ever onward press,
Until mine eager hand should touch the goal
Of possible passion. Did I love thee less,
Then might I love thee more; but now my soul
Is filled throughout with perfect tenderness;
No part of me thou hast, but the full whole.
JAMES ASHCROFT NOBLE.

TELL HIM I LOVE HIM YET.

Tell him I love him yet, as in that joyous time; Tell him I ne'er forget, though memory now be crime;

Tell him, when sad moonlight is over earth and

sea,

I dream of him by night, he must not dream of me!

Tell him to go where Fame looks proudly on the

brave;

Tell him to win a name by deeds on land and

wave;

Green, green upon his brow the laurel-wreath shall be;

Although the laurel now may not be shared with

me.

Tell him to smile again in pleasure's dazzling throng,

To wear another's chain, to praise another's song;

Before the loveliest there, I'd have him bend the

knee,

And breathe to her the prayer he used to breathe to me.

And tell him, day by day life looks to me more

dim;

I falter when I pray, although I pray for him. And bid him, when I die, come to our favorite

tree;

I shall not hear him sigh,-then let him sigh for

me!

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

SONG.

A place in thy memory, dearest,

Is all that I claim,

So pause and look back when thou hearest

The sound of my name. Another may woo thee nearer,

Another may win and wear,

I care not though he be dearer,
If I am remembered there.

Could I be thy true lover, dearest,
Couldst thou smile on me,

I would be the fondest and nearest
That ever loved thee.

But a cloud o'er my pathway is glooming Which never must break upon thine, And Heaven which made thee all blooming Ne'er made thee to wither on mine.

Remember me not as a lover

Whose fond hopes are crossed, Whose bosom can never recover The light it has lost;

As the young bride remembers the mother She loves, yet never may see,

As a sister remembers a brother,

Oh, dearest, remember me.

GERALD GRIFFIN.

I WANDERED BY THE BROOK-SIDE.

I wandered by the brook-side,

I wandered by the rill,

I could not hear the brook flow,
The noisy wheel was still.
There was no burr of grasshopper,
No chirp of any bird;

But the beating of my own heart,
Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elm-tree,

I watched the long, long shade,
And as it grew still longer,
I did not feel afraid;

MY WEE, WEE WIFE.

For I listened for a foot fall,

I listened for a word;

But the beating of my own heart,
Was all the sound I heard.

He came not-no, he came not,-
The night came on alone.
The little stars sat, one by one,
Each on his golden throne;
The evening air passed by my cheek,
The leaves above were stirred;
But the beating of my own heart,
Was all the sound I heard.

Fast, silent tears were flowing,
When something stood behind,
A hand was on my shoulder,
I knew its touch was kind;

It drew me nearer, nearer,
We did not speak one word;

For the beating of our own hearts,
Was all the sound we heard.

LORD HOUGHTON.

MY WEE, WEE WIFE.

My wee wife dwells in yonder cot,
My bonny bairnies three;

Oh! happy is the husband's lot
Wi' bairnies on his knee.

97

My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife,
My bonny bairnies three,-

How bright is day, how sweet is life,
When love lights up the e'e!

The king o'er me may wear a crown,
Have millions bow the knee,

But lacks he love to share his throne,
How poor a king is he!

My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife,
My bonny bairnies three,

Let kings ha'e thrones 'mang warld's strife,
Your hearts are thrones to me.

I've felt oppression's galling chain,

I've shed the tear of care,

But feeling ay lost a' its pain,

When my wee wife was near.

My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife,

My bonnie bairnies three,

The chains we wear are sweet to bear,— How sad could we go free!

ALEXANDER HUME.

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side,

On a bright May mornin', long ago,
When first you were my bride;