I watched as they stood before it,— A girl with a face as fair As any among the marbles, So cold in their whiteness there; And a youth in whose glance, entreaty Each lineament seemed to stir, She only had eyes for the sculpture; He only had eyes for her. And poising in critic-fashion The delicate upturned head, “Was ever so sweet a beggar?” With sudden appeal, she said. “Just look at the innocent archness, The simple and childish grace, Half mirthful and half pathetic, That dimples his pleading face. “Whoever could think that mischief Was hidden in such a guise? Or even that rosy sorrows Lurk in those lambent eyes? “_Deny him?_ Perhaps! though never With hardness or scorn or blame; For I think I should sob with pity, If that were the way he came.” She turned as she spoke: the glamour Of feeling had made her blind To the trick of the stealthy arrow The Cupid concealed behind: “Ah, ha!” she cried, while the color Rubied her neck of snow— “You plausible, wheedling beggar! I have nothing to give you,—Go!” MARGARET J. PRESTON. LOVE! IF A GOD THOU ART Love! if a god thou art, Then evermore thou must Be merciful and just; If thou be just, O wherefore doth thy dart Wound mine alone, and not my lady’s heart? If merciful, then why Am I to pain reserved, Who have thee truly served, While she, that by thy power fits not afly, Laughs thee to scorn, and lives at liberty? Then, if a god thou wilt accounted be, Heal me like her, or else wound her like me. FRANCIS DAVISON. LOVE’S GOING Love lies a-sleeping; maiden, softly sing, Lest he should waken; pluck the falling rose A-brushing ’gainst his cheek, her glowing heart Ope’d to the sun’s hot kisses—foolish thing, To list the tale oft told!—but summer goes, And all the roses’ petals fall apart. Love lies a-sleeping; let the curtains part So that the breeze may lightly to him sing A lullaby—the changeful breeze that goes A-whispering through the grass, where’er it rose, Where’er it listeth bound, a wilful thing, Low murmuring sweets from an inconstant heart. Love lies a-sleeping: press the pulsing heart That beats against thy bosom: stand apart And stay thine eager breath, lest anything Should mar his rest—the songs that lovers sing, The tale the butterfly tells to the rose, The low wind to the grass, and onward goes. Love lies a-sleeping: ah, how swiftly goes The sweet delusion he hath taught thy heart, Fair maiden, pressing to thy breast the rose, Whose fun-kissed petals sadly fall apart, With thy quick breath! Thy rhyme wouldst hear him sing Which yesterday seemed such a foolish thing?