With fan and roar of gloomy wings They gave the door a windy shove; They perched on chairs and brooms and things; Like bats they beat around above— Poor little maid, she’d let the witches in with Love. MARY E. WILKINS. LOVE AND DREAM Cupid, wandering one May-day, Met with loitering Death by chance; No aged carl as many say, But young as he, as fair and gay, As fond of boyish sport or dance. “Come, wrestle,” and, so saying, Love, Loos’ning the quiver at his breast, Hung it upon the bough above. “These arrows,” quoth he, “when they rove, Make youth a slave at my behest.” Among the tender-blooming leaves Death made _his_ quiver sure and fast, “_My_ arrows bring rest when age grieves,” And down unwary Love he heaves; So frolicked they till Discord passed. She, wicked, hating merry play, Scattered their arrows on the green, And thus confused, some got astray In either quiver. Since that day Youth dies and old age dotes, I ween. ANNA VERNON DORSEY. CUPID LAID BY HIS BRAND Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep: A maid of Dian’s this advantage found, And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep In a cold valley-fountain of that ground; Which borrowed from this holy fire of Love A dateless lively heat, still to endure, And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove Against strange maladies a sovereign cure. But at my mistress’ eye Love’s brand new-fired, The boy for trial needs would touch my breast; I, sick withal, the help of bath desired, And thither hied, a sad distempered guest, But found no cure; the bath for my help lies Where Cupid got new fire—my mistress’ eyes. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. [Illustration: A MADRIGAL] Before me careless lying, Young Love his ware comes crying; Full soon the elf untreasures His pack of pains and pleasures,— With roguish eye He bids me buy From out his pack of treasures. His wallet’s stuffed with blisses, With true-love-knots and kisses, With rings and rosy fetters, And sugared vows and letters;— He holds them out With boyish flout, And bids me try the fetters. Nay, Child (I cry), I know them; There’s little need to show them! Too well for new believing I know their past deceiving,— I am too old (I say), and cold, To-day, for new believing! But still the wanton presses, With honey-sweet caresses, And still, to my undoing, He wins me, with his wooing, To buy his wares With all their cares, Their sorrow and undoing! AUSTIN DOBSON. LOVE’S REWARD