DUSKIER than the clouds that li… ‘Tween the coal-pit and the sky, Lo, how Willy whistles by Right cheery from the colliree. Duskier might the laddie be

O, COULD I a garland braid, That would never, never fade, I would crown the modest maid Queen of earth’s joy-giving band! Poor or wealthy, dark or fair,

OH, what is Life? A magic nigh… In which we still to phantoms yiel… And what is Death, if not the lig… By which the real truth’s reveal’d…

‘YOU little like the sonnet? Yo… But what are you? a creaking wicke… A cricket in the grass, allow Me, slut! to say a very cricket!— ’A chatter-box, or at the best’—

Last night at the Fair did I lose… I hunted thee south and I hunted… I’d rather than lost thee have los… That all the great lords in the ki… Heart-sorry in worry and flurry di…

THE fickle Moon has left the ski… But Night’s blue veil with stars… And every little twinkler tries To twinkle as he’d never twinkled. O, now’s the hour for Love to pou…

THERE’S not a may in Ellerton By half so sweet to look upon; In all the country round there’s n… So sweet as Dora Dee. The blood-red rose to passer by,

Now Gladstone’s party bears the b… And now Disraeli’s—now The people really cannot tell, For whom their hands to show. Now this way, la, now that incline…

SHE is not fashioned to command, Nor once, for grace, in her is sho… A form that peers the lily-wand— An air the lily’s self might own; Not such her vaunt, tho’ such ench…

COAL black are the tresses of Fa… But never a mortal could see The coal-coloured tresses of Anni… And be as a body should be. White, white, is her forehead, and…

‘ADIEU!’ she cried, and with tha… Adown the star-lit valley fleeted, And Echo from her tower on high, With cruel tongue, the word repeat… ‘What?—Never!’ cried I, yet posse…

‘You wont!’ the Rose’s accents ri… ‘I will!’ the Golden Bee’s are ri… And tho’ the winds, to aid her, sp… Soon with the breeze-tost bloom he… swinging.

LITTLE Anna, cruel elf, Spite of all my reason, She, she puts me from myself, In and out of season; Ah, the imp! ah, the shrimp!

THE Hartley men are noble, and Ye’ll hear a tale of woe; I’ll tell the doom of the Hartley… The year of sixty-two. ’Twas on a Thursday morning, on

I READ in an old book the myth Of the Hellenian damsel with The magic needle, when there fell On me a power—a mystic spell— I could not well to others tell.