“I came the sooner, love,” said she, With maidenly simplicity— “Because, before the sun goes down, Stern darkness in the woods will frown; And though I reach my home while yet The red clouds linger in the west, Methinks dark forms the woods beset; They trouble me with sad unrest; How, yester-eve, the big trees moaned! Methought for me they sighed and groaned: The screech-owl screeched above my path— It seemed to haunt me with its wrath: And all the gentler birds have flown— The loneliness is all my own!” “Love, this is autumn now, you know; To other lands the wild birds go— They only rest in summer bower, And only stay while lasts the flower; But, Helen, not thus let it be With all this love that binds us now; In winter, bare will be the tree, No bird will sing upon the bough— But see where I have taught the beech, If either here should roam alone, Long after this blest hour has flown, The vows of both to tell to each: Our names I’ve circled with a heart, As thus I hold thee to my own, And thus, though we afar may part As ever yet did fond ones sever, The love that binds us holds forever.” This beech tree was their trysting-place! There, oft in summer’s fragrant eve, Just when the red sun took his leave— When the coy moon, with half hid face, Peeped o’er the eastern hills afar, With here and there a radiant star; When twilight came, with sober mien, And silence brooded o’er the scene— Thither the maid would often stray, Humming, may be, a laughing lay, That told true love was all untrue, And made of nothing great ado; She’d have them think, if she were heard, She scorned the very love she sought, And that she sung like careless bird— A maiden who was free in thought: Who roamed, and, roaming, trolled a glee, Because she wanted company. Upon this eve they met to part Till spring again should clothe the vine; They pledged their faith with beating heart, And made the beechen tree their shrine; He watched her white dress, glimmering bright Thro’ the dark woods: “Good night! good night!” * * * * * SYBIL AND MAIDEN. BY G. G. FOSTER. _Sybil._ Why art thou sad? Why droops the willowy lid O’er the deep fountain of that passionate eye? What monster in thy bosom’s depths is playing, And heaving thus those delicate billows, which The wind of thy sweet breath but dares to swell, Most daintily, and sighs to fly away? _Maiden._