I hid the pearl in my breast, Fearful lest The wind should steal, or the wave repent Largess made in mere merriment, And snatch it back again Into the main. But careless grown, ah me! Wantonly I held between two fingers fine My gem above the sparkling brine, Only to see it gleam Across the stream. I felt the treasure slide Under the tide; I saw its mild and delicate ray Glittering upward, fade away. Ah! then my tears did flow, Long ago! I weep, and weep, and weep, Into the deep; Sad am I that I could not hold A treasure richer than virgin gold. That Fate so sweetly gave Out of the wave. I dip my hand in the sea, Longingly; But never more will that jewel white Shed on my soul its tender light. My pearl lies buried deep Where mermaids sleep. Some readers of this MAGAZINE are, no doubt, for the first time making acquaintance with Miss Mulholland under this character in which others have known her long; and even these newest friends know enough of her already to pronounce upon some of her characteristics. She is not influenced by the spell of modern culture which has invested the poetic diction of recent years with an exquisite expressiveness and delicate beauty. But, while her style is the very antithesis of the tawdry or the commonplace, she has no mannerisms or affectations; she belongs to no school; she does not deem it the poet's duty to cultivate an artificial, _recherche_, dilettante dialect unknown to Shakespeare and Wordsworth--if we may use a string of epithets which can only be excused for their outlandishness on the plea that they describe something very outlandish. Her meaning is as lucid as her thoughts are high and pure. If, after reading one of her poems carefully, we sometimes have to ask "What does she mean by that?" we ask it not on account of any obscurity in her language, but on account of the depth and height of her thoughts. The musical rhythm of our extracts prepares us for the form which many of Miss Mulholland's inspirations assume--that of the song pure and simple. Those last epithets have here more than the meaning which they usually bear in such a context; for these songs are not only eminently singable, but they are marked by a very attractive purity and simplicity. There are many of them besides this one which alone bears no other name than "Song." The silent bird is hid in the boughs, The scythe is hid in the corn, The lazy oxen wink and drowse, The grateful sheep are shorn. Redder and redder burns the rose, The lily was ne'er so pale, Stiller and stiller the river flows Along the path to the vale.