FROM "BARNAVAL.”

YELLOW and amber-hued, pink-white, gold-red
Roses for one pulled who at last came not,

Roses, your perfumes to the dustiest spot,

Each cobweb of my attic now are sped,

And soothe me with a fond reproach when all complaints are said.

Droop the head, beauties, oh, and rain your leaves

Along the bare and sunrift powdered floor!

Though death be nigh, could ye have blossomed more?

Did ye not waste beneath my humble eaves

As much, to you as all the West's innumerable sheaves? Generous, celestial, rainbow-tinctured souls,

Too great to murmur at your slender fate,

Would you were fixed in firm and gorgeous state On convent walls where daily upward rolls

To heaven in incense for that queen whose meekness heaven controls !

Roses, I am so lonely in the waste!

And ye too pass, and sunsets flit and fade;

The birds are going; music dies while made

And every noble thing away must haste:

I linger here and think on one henceforth forlorn, disgraced.

Why should man seem so noble-and not be?

Why from his heart shed forth a perfume rare
That only seems to embalm the troubled air?

Why talk so true, why be so fair to see,

Why wrap about him snake-skin robes rank with hypocrisy ?

Roses, farewell! I could not keep you here

To linger longer in a tradesman's world;

In vain to those your wonders are unfurled

Who hold the high thing cheap, the base thing dear.
The cry is gold! your priceless charms will only raise

a sneer.

ROBERT BURNS WILSON.

[Born in Washington County, Pennsylvania, 1850, but resides in Frankfort, Kentucky. Author of Life and Love, published in New York, by Cassell & Company, with whose kind permis. sion the poems given are quoted.]

LIFE AND LOVE.

ONCE, in the long ago, when Life and Love
Walked ever, hand in hand :

They came to Earth, from some fair realm above,
And wandered through the land.

Much did they find whereon their art to try,
For then the world was new;

They shook the sunbeams from the blended sky,
And steeped the ground with dew.

Upon the fields the emerald turf they spread,
And clad the hills in green;

They laid the meadows in the vales, and led
The glittering streams between.

Life lifted up the flowers throughout the land,
By woodland, slope and fen;

Love stooped and touched them with her glowing hand,
And they have bloomed since then.

Life taught the birds to build within the brake,
And clothed each fledgling's wing;

Love lifted up her voice, but once, to wake
The songs which now they sing.

Thus ever hand in hand they journeyed on
From sea to sun-lit sea :

Their garments had the freshness of the dawn
That wakes the flowering lea.

And journeying thus, at length they found a child,
New-risen from the sod;

Life frowned, and said, "He is a beast"; Love smiled
And said, "He is a god."

Thus were their hands disjoined, and from the ground
Betwixt these twain, arose

A dark and shadowed figure-sorrow-crowned,
And draped in sable woes.

Because that Nature's tenderest demands
Did seem of little worth-

From henceforth, Life and Love their parted hands
Shall join no more on earth.

For this, the flowers shall haste to fail and fade,
The wood and field turn sere;

And all the songsters of the summer glade

Fly with the changing year.

Life lifted up the Child, and gave

And he did walk between

him breath,

Love on the right-Life on the left-and Death
Did follow, all unseen.

"What wilt thou give," saith Life, "and I will show Thine eyes the path of fame,

And lead thee, so that after years shall know
And wonder at thy name?"

"All," said the Child, "that Fate shall bring to me, And all that Fame can give

To heart and mind, all, will I give to thee,

If I shall always live."

But Love bent low and gently laid his head
Against her broad, white breast_

"What wilt thou give to me?" she softly said,
"And I will give thee rest."

"Alas!" he answered. "I am now bereft, Of all I might control.

One gift remains-myself alone, am left,

To thee I give my soul!"

Then Love put sandals on his naked feet,
And, in her tender care,

Wove him a broidered garment-soft and sweet-
Such as a god might wear.

She girt his body with the golden zone

Loosed from her own warm breast,
And on his lips the imprint of her own
She passionately pressed.

And in his heart she lit the deathless fire
Which rests not, night nor day;

But still doth turn the soul, with fond desire,
To beauty's path, alway.

So they did journey, and the land was fair,
Each new-born day did seem

Hope's inspiration, as when morning air
Breathes from a woodland stream.

But Life began to weary of the way-
Such fickle heart hath she-

And though Love urged with tears, she would not stay,
But shook her fair hand free.

Then Death came swiftly up, in silent might,
With arms outstretched and cold;

And bare the child back to the land of Night,
To mingle mould with mould.

But Love still journeyed on from scene to scene,
Sought still some land of rest;

And ever by her side a soul did lean,

Close to her faithful breast.

Long ages have rolled by, Earth's children find
Life false and fickle still;

Her promises are fair, but she, unkind,
Forsakes them all at will.

The path is sweet and blooming, still the same
As in that ancient day;

And sable Death still follows hard to claim
The soul-forsaken clay.

And still she lives, whose dear, divine control
Nor Life, nor Death, can sever;

And journeying still, the unimprisoned soul
Goeth on with Love for ever,

MY LADY SLEEPS.

Ан, happy-hearted bird,

Full-throated minstrel, shaking all the air
With golden ripples of thy passion pleading;
I tell thee true, my lady is not heeding;
She lies asleep, within her window there;
Good sooth-thou art not heard.

Thou living memory of her kindly care,

The small white hand, which once had gifts to share, Will never hold forth morsels for thy feeding

In sad hereafter days;

Nor pluck the roses by her lattice creeping.

So slow the curtain sways,

Not strange it seemeth now, she should be sleeping; So soft the sweet air strays,

So fair she lies.

And in her room the silences are keeping

A watch upon her eyes,

And with forgetful balm their light-lids steeping.

Lest she should wake and rise,

The roses she last gathered now are weeping
Upon my lady's breast;

Close to the foam-like laces of her gown

Their silent lips are pressed,

And drops of dew, like fragrant tears, slip down
Between the moveless snowy billows there
Which heave no more, for rapture, nor despair.
Nor storm nor sunshine, rain, nor falling dew,
Nor stirring leaves, nor voice of friend or foe,

Nor surge of all the worlds shall enter through The stillness guarding now that slumberer fair; Whose heart knows now no guest,

Nor any ray nor shadow, weal nor woe.

Cease, cease thy song, sweet bird, far hence, fly thou; Where Nature keeps

June-day revel, in fair fields new drest,

Thy mate awaits thee there;