"A grave, a grave let there be made, and let it be wide and deep; And fair Ellinnor shall rest by my side and the brown girl at my feet."

A grave, a grave there then was made, and it was both wide and

deep;

And fair Ellinnor was laid by his side, and the brown girl at his

feet.

WE

THE BAZAAR GIRL.

SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.

E journeyed with a company to play
Two rains ago; and she I tell you of,
Our chiefest singer, took the road with us,
A Bird of Women-pleasant, patient, bright.
A common girl, I say-born to the bells,-
But gentle, winsome, so that wayfarers,

Seeing her face, would cry: "God go your friend,"
And shy things of the jungle and the grove
Had never dread of her-crows, mynas, doves—
But perked and pecked, close to her feet, unfeared.
So fell it that we rested on our path,

Eating and drinking by a forest-pool;

And hard by camped some Brahmans, pilgriming
To Muttra-women, children, householders,

Rich folk and proud. But while we tarried there—
Those high-cast people holding far aloof
From taint of us-one small, brown baba left

Its mother's breast, a little naked maid
Two years of age, maybe. Wilful she crept
Across the sand, and found our singing-girl,
And nestled to her heart, cooing soft sounds,
And winding in between her arms, the way
Young birds have when they reach the wings they love.

You are too great to know or care for this,
But women melt to touch of baby hands,
And she was fondling, lulling this soft friend,
Who knew the sweetness of her soul as bees
Know where the honey hides in jungle-flowers,
When, near at hand, the angry mother spied,
And ran, and snatched her babe away, and screamed:
"Poison it not, thou woman of bazaars!

With thine accursed lips and arms for hire.
Give me my babe, and get thee to thy trade,
Which hath no good, nor grace of children's love!"
And we were wroth and would have fallen on them;.
But she, the mild-faced, laughed, and said, "Let be!
The Brahman woman hath much right to scorn!"

They took the road;

And afterward we followed, when the sun
Made longer shadows. At a lonely spot
Where Imri trees grew round a tank, thick-set
With rocks, and one white temple by the tank-
Ill-named for savage beasts, a place of fear-

We heard loud cries. The Brahman father runs
Shouting to those with us: "Ah, friends! your spears!
Your tulwars! Shiva, Shiva! help us, help!"

Then, when his breath was fetched, the good man toldSorely lamenting-how his wife had laid

Her sleeping baby in that temple-yard

While at the tank they bathed; and how, half-washed,
They marked a great, gaunt tigress from the wood
Stalk forth, and sniff the temple-steps, and pass
Into the temple-court; and there she couched
Watching the infant yet asleep. If yet
It slept in that most dreadful company,
Since none could see or know; nay, all were fled
For life's sake; only, in a peepul tree,

Hard by the shrine, a camel-man had climbed.
And he was calling, "Haste! if ye would aid!
The beast is not yet hungered, and she plays,
Licking her jowls, curling her tail; she lies
Eying the babe, which doth not move.

Oh, haste!"

At any show of arms
The beast had leaped upon the prey it watched
Across that temple-court. There was one hope-
To come between the tigress and the child

Before its mood changed, while it surmised still
Some trap, some mischief, in its sleeping food-
This we well knew, and the singing-girl, and all;
But how to come? I heard her say:
"The baby is my baby of the morn,

Who wound its arms about my neck, and kissed
My mouth with innocent lips! See! I will go
And take my friend forth from the tiger's mouth,
If God shall please. And if He shall not please—
Why, 'tis a singing-girl the brute will eat,
And not that tender one, born to live pure!"

So, ere a hand could stay her, she had drawn
The sari tight between her knees, and walked,
With those kind eyes fixed hard upon the beast,
Straight to the spot-had stooped, had gathered close
The silent child against that heart which beat
Fearless of fear-had reached the steps again,
Steadfastly eying always those fierce eyes

That glared and sparkled, blazing rage and dread;
Her face always full-turned to that fell face
Cushioned upon spread paws, yet stirring not.
For, sirs! as God is God, the love of it,
The greatness of it, and the suddenness,
Lay on that snarling, bristling beast of blood,
A spell and wonder which it could not burst

For all the savage pantings of its strength.
And she had gained the porch, the outer steps,
Ere, with a roar-as when the thunder cracks
A black-bound cloud,-mad to be free and safe
From the sweet terror of those mastering eyes,
The tigress bounded through the air-a flash
Of living lightning-passed the porch, one claw
Striking the girl, tearing her choli down,
But oh! a skin-wound only! for the beast,
Sought quick escape; and safe she came to us,
Clasping the babe, red with her gentle blood.
And so the mother took her infant back,
A gift from the bazaar-girl!

I

ON THE BRINK.

C. S. CALVERLY.

WATCHED her as she stooped to pluck

A wild-flower in her hair to twine;

And wished that it had been my luck

To call her mine.

Anon I heard her rate with mad,

Mad words her babe within its cot;
And felt particularly glad

That it had not.

I knew (such subtle brains have men)

That she was uttering what she shouldn't;
And thought that I would chide, and then
I thought I wouldn't.

Who could have gazed upon that face,
Those pouting coral lips, and chided?
A Rhadamanthus, in my place,

Had done as I did.

For ire wherewith our bosoms glow
Is chained there oft by beauty's spell;
And, more than that, I did not know
The widow well.

So the harsh phrase passed unreproved.
Still mute (O brothers, was it sin?)
I drank, unutterably moved,

Her beauty in.

And to myself I murmured low,

As on her upturned face and dress
The moonlight fell, “Would she say No,
By chance, or Yes?"

She stood so calm, so like a ghost
Betwixt me and that magic moon,

That I already was almost

A finished coon.

But when she caught adroitly up

And soothed with smiles her little daughter;

And gave it, if I'm right, a sup

Of barley-water;

And, crooning still the strange, sweet lore

Which only mothers' tongues can utter,

Snowed with deft hand the sugar o'er

Its bread-and-butter;

And kiss'd it clingingly (Ah, why

Don't women do these things in private?)

I felt that if I lost her, I

Should not survive it.

And from my mouth the words nigh flew-
The past, the future, I forgat 'em:
"Oh! if you'd kiss me as you do
That thankless atom!"