Is it indeed so? If I lay here dead,
Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine?
And would the sun for thee more coldly shine,
Because of grave-damps falling round my head?
I marvelled, my Belovéd, when I read
Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine-
But... so much to thee? Can I pour thy wine
While my hands tremble? Then my soul, instead
Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower range.
Then, love me, Love! look on me... breathe on

me!

As brighter ladies do not count it strange,
For love, to give up acres and degree,
I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange
My nearsweet view of Heaven, for earth with thee!

My letters! all dead paper, ... mute and white!-
And yet they seem alive and quivering
Against my tremulous hands which loose the string
And let them drop down on my knee to-night.
This said,... he wished to have me in his sight

Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring
To come and touch my hand... a simple thing,
Yet I wept for it! this, ... the paper's light...
Said, Dear, I love thee; and I sank and quailed
As if God's future thundered on my past.
This said, I am thine, and so its ink has paled
With lying at my heart that beat too fast.
And this... O Love, thy words have ill availed,
If what this said, I dared repeat at last!

I THINK of thee! my thoughts do twine and bud
About thee, as wild vines, about a tree,
Put out broad leaves, and soon there's naught to see
Except the straggling green which hides the wood.
Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understood
I will not have my thoughts instead of thee

--

And, looking on myself, I seemed not one
For such man's love! more like an out of tune
Worn viol, a good singer would be wroth
To spoil his song with, and which, snatched in haste
Is laid down at the first ill-sounding note.
I did not wrong myself so, but I placed
A wrong on thee. For perfect strains may float
Neath master-hands, from instruments defaced,
And great souls, at one stroke, may do and doat.

XXXV !!!
FIRST time he kissed me, he but only kissed
The fingers of this hand wherewith I write ;
And, ever since, it grew more clean and white,
Slow to world-greetings, quick with its "O list!"
When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst
I could not wear here, plainer to my sight
Than that first kiss. The second passed in height
The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed,
Half falling on the hair. O, beyond meed!
That was the chrism of love, which love's own

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

BURD HELEN.

["This beautiful tale of woman's love," wrote Dr. Robert Chambers in 1829, "beautiful in the pathos of its simple and touching narrative, and equally beautiful in the pathos of its simple and touching language, was first published by Percy, as an English ballad, under the title of "Childe Waters."]

LORD JOHN stood in his stable door,

Said he was boun' to ride :
Burd Helen stood in her bouir door,

Said she'd run by his side.

"The corn is turning ripe, Lord John ;

The nuts are growing fu' :

An' ye are boun' for your ain countrie;

Fain wad I go with you."

"Wi' me, Helen! wi' me, Helen!

What wad ye do wi' me?
I've mair need o' a little foot-page,
Than of the like o' thee."

"O, I will be your little foot-boy,
To wait upon your steed;
And I will be your little foot-page,
Your leish of hounds to lead."

"But my hounds will eat the breid o' wheat, And ye the dust and bran;

Then will ye sit and sigh, Helen,

That e'er ye lo'ed a man."

"O, your dogs may eat the gude wheat-breid, And I the dust and bran;

Yet will I sing and say, weel's me,
That e'er I lo'ed a man!"

"O, better ye'd stay at hame, Helen,
And sew your silver seam;

For my house is in the far Hielands,

And ye'll ha'e puir welcome hame."

"I winna stay, Lord John," she said,
"To sew my silver seam ;
Though your house is in the far Hielands,
And I'll ha'e puir welcome hame."

"Then if you'll be my foot-page, Helen,
As you tell unto me,

Then you must cut your gown of green
An inch abune your knee.

"So you must cut your yellow locks
An inch abune your e'e;

You must tell no man what is my name :
My foot-page then you'll be."

Then he has luppen* on his white steed,
And straight awa' did ride;
Burd Helen, dressed in men's array,
She ran fast by his side.

* Leapt.

"But that his middle is sae thick,
His girdle sae wond'rous hie :
Let him, I pray thee, good Lord John,
To chamber go with me."

"It is not fit for a little foot-page,
That has run through moss and mire,
To go into chamber with any ladye
That wears so rich attire.

"It were more meet for a little foot-page,
That has run through moss and mire,
To take his supper upon his knee,
And sit doun by the kitchen fire."

When bells were rung, and mass was sung,
And a' men boun' to meat,

Burd Helen was, at the bye-table, §
Amang the pages set.

"O, eat and drink, my bonnie boy,
The white breid and the beer."
"The never a bit can I eat or drink;
My heart's sae fu' o' fear."

"O, eat and drink, my bonnie boy,
The white breid and the wine."
"O the never a bit can I eat or drink;
My heart's sae fu' o' pyne." ||

She leaned her back again' the wa';

Strong travail came her on ;
And, e'en among the great horse' feet,
She has brought forth her son.

When bells were rung, and mass was sung,
And a' men boun' for bed,

Lord John's mother and sister gay

In ae bouir they were laid.

Lord John hadna weel got aff his claes,
Nor was he weel laid doun,
Till his mother heard a bairn greet,
And a woman's heavy moan.

"Win up, win up, Lord John," she said;
"Seek neither stockings nor shoen:
For I ha'e heard a bairn loud greet,
And a woman's heavy moan!"

"Richt hastilie he rase him up,

Socht neither hose nor shoen;
And he's doen him to the stable door,
By the lee licht o' the mune.

"O, open the door, Burd Helen," he said, "O, open and let me in ;

I want to see if my steed be fed,
Or my greyhounds fit to rin."

*Skilful.

"O lullaby, my own deir child! Lullaby, deir child, deir!

I wold thy father were a king,

Thy mother laid on a bier!"

“O, open the door, Burd Helen,” he says, "O, open the door to me;

Or, as my sword hangs by my gair,*
I'll gar it gang in three !"

"That never was my mother's custome, And I hope it's ne'er be mine; A knicht into her companie,

When she dries a' her pyne."

He hit the door then wi' his foot,
Sae did he wi' his knee;

Till door o' deal, and locks o' steel,
In splinders he gart* flee.

"An askin', an askin', Lord John," she says, "An askin' ye 'll grant me;

The meanest maid about your house,
To bring a drink to me.

"An askin', an askin', my dear Lord John,
An askin' ye 'll grant me ;
The warsten bouir in a' your touirs,
For thy young son and me!"

"I grant, I grant your askins, Helen,
An' that and mair frae me;
The very best bouir in a' my touirs,
For my young son and thee.

"O, have thou comfort, fair Helen,

Be of good cheer, I pray ;

And your bridal and your kirking baith
Shall stand upon ae day."

And he has ta'en her Burd Helen,

And rowed her in the silk;
And he has ta'en his ain young son,

And washed him in the milk.

And there was ne'er a gayer bridegroom,
Nor yet a blyther bride,

As they, Lord John and Lady Helen,
Neist day to kirk did ride.

ANONYMOUS.

She'll weep for naught for his dear sake; She clasps her sister in her sleep;

Her love in dreams is most awake.
Her soul, that once with pleasure shook
Did any eyes her beauty own,
Now wonders how they dare to look
On what belongs to him alone.
The indignity of taking gifts
Exhilarates her loving breast;
A rapture of submission lifts
Her life into celestial rest.
There's nothing left of what she was,
Back to the babe the woman dies;
And all the wisdom that she has
Is to love him for being wise.
She's confident because she fears;

And, though discreet when he's away,
If none but her dear despot hears,

She'll prattle like a child at play.
Perchance, when all her praise is said,
He tells the news, -a battle won-
On either side ten thousand dead-

Describing how the whole was done :
She thinks, 'He's looking on my face!
I am his joy; whate'er I do,
He sees such time-contenting grace

In that, he'd have me always so!"
And, evermore, for either's sake,

To the sweet folly of the dove
She joins the cunning of the snake,
To rivet and exalt his love.
Her mode of candor is deceit ;

And what she thinks from what she'll say, (Although I'll never call her cheat,)

Lies far as Scotland from Cathay. Without his knowledge he was won,

Against his nature kept devout; She'll never tell him how 't was done, And he will never find it out.

If, sudden, he suspects her wiles,

THE MISTRESS.

If he's capricious, she 'll be so; But, if his duties constant are,

She lets her loving favor glow

As steady as a tropic star.

BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS.

Like fairy-gifts fading away!