Volume 3 — I. DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE. (continued 2)

THE NUN AND HARP. What memory fired her pallid face, What passion stirred her blood, What tide of sorrow and desire Poured its forgotten flood Upon a heart that ceased to beat, Long since, with thought that life was sweet, When nights were rich with vernal dusk, And the rose burst its bud? Had not the western glory then Stolen through the latticed room, Her funeral raiment would have shed A more heart-breaking gloom; Had not a dimpled convent-maid Hung in the doorway, half afraid, And left the melancholy place Bright with her blush and bloom! Beside the gilded harp she stood, And through the singing strings Wound those wan hands of folded prayer In murmurous preludings. Then, like a voice, the harp rang high Its melody, as climb the sky, Melting against the melting blue, Some bird's vibrating wings. Ah, why, of all the songs that grow Forever tenderer, Chose she that passionate refrain Where lovers 'mid the stir Of wassailers that round them pass Hide their sweet secret? Now, alas, In her nun's habit, coifed and veiled, What meant that song to her! Slowly the western ray forsook The statue in its shrine; A sense of tears thrilled all the air Along the purpling line. Earth seemed a place of graves that rang To hollow footsteps, while she sang, "Drink to me only with thine eyes. And I will pledge with mine!" HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.

FIDELITY IN DOUBT. Come, lady, to my song incline, The last that shall assail thine ear. None other cares my strains to hear, And scarce thou feign'st thyself therewith delighted! Nor know I well if I am loved or slighted; But this I know, thou radiant one and sweet, That, loved or spurned, I die before thy feet! Yea, I will yield this life of mine In every deed, if cause appear, Without another boon to cheer. Honor it is to be by thee incited To any deed; and I, when most benighted By doubt, remind me that times change and fleet, And brave men still do their occasion meet. From the French of GUIRAUD LEROUX. Translation of HARRIET WATERS PRESTON.

FAITH. Better trust all and be deceived, And weep that trust and that deceiving, Than doubt one heart that, if believed, Had blessed one's life with true believing. O, in this mocking world too fast The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth; Better be cheated to the last Than lose the blessed hope of truth. FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE-BUTLER.