That methought such bliss as I did
Poet never drew from wine.

Rest he gave me and refection,—
Chastened hopes, calm retrospection,-
Softened images of sorrow,

Bright forebodings for the morrow,-
Charity for what is past,—

Faith in something good at last.

Now, why should any almanack

The name of this good creature lack?
Wherefore should the breviary
Omit a saint so sage and merry?
The Pope himself should grant a day
Especially to Saint Peray.

But, since no day hath been appointed,
On purpose, by the Lord's anointed,
Let us not wait-we'll do him right;

Send round your bottles, Hal-and set your night.

"WHAT fairings will ye that I bring?"
Said the king to his daughters three;
"For I to Vanity Fair am bound,
Now say what shall they be?"

Then up and spake the eldest daughter,
The lady tall and grand,

"Ye shall bring to me the diamonds great, And gold rings for my hand."

Thereafter spake the second daughter,
That was both white and red,

"For me bring silk that will stand alone
And a gold comb for my head."

Then lowly spake the least daughter,
That was whiter than thistle-down,
And among the gold of her blithesome hair
Dim shone the golden crown.

"There came a bird at sunrise

And sang 'neath my bower-eaves,

And sent the sweet dream that bade me
To ask for the Singing Leaves."

The vein of his forehead reddened
In a ridge of angry scorn,
"Well have ye spoken, my two eldest,
And chosen as ye were born.

"But thou, like a thing of peasant blood, That is happy binding the sheaves!”— Then he saw her dead mother in her face, And said, "Thou shalt have thy Leaves."

II.

He bade farewell to the elder twain,
And touched his lips to their cheek,
But 'twas thrice he kiss'd the Princess Anne,
And looked back and did not speak.

And he has ridden three days and nights,
Till he came to Vanity Fair;

And easy it was to buy gems and gold,
But no Singing Leaves were there.

THE SINGING LEAVES.

Then deep in the greenwood rode he,
And asked of every tree:

"Oh, if ye have ever a singing leaf,
I pray you to give it me!"

But the trees all kept their counsel;
They said neither yea or nay;
Only there sighed from the pine-tops
A music of seas far away.

Only the aspen pattered

With a sound like growing rain, That fell ever fast and faster,

Then faltered to silence again.

"Oh, where shall I find a little foot-page, That would win both hose and shoon, And will bring to me these Singing Leaves, If they grow 'neath sun or moon?"

Then lightly turned him Walter, the page,
By the stirrup as he ran,

"Now pledge to me the truesome word
Of a knight and gentleman,

"That you will give me the first, first thing You meet at your castle-gate;

And the princess shall get the Singing Leaves, Or mine be the traitor's fate!"

The king's head dropped on his bosom

A moment, as it might be

"Twill be my hound, he thought, and he said,

"I pledge my word to thee."

Then Walter took from next his heart

A packet small and thin;

"And give you this to the Princess AnneThe Singing Leaves are therein."

III.

As the king rode in, o'er the loud draw-bridge

A maiden to meet him ran;

And, "Welcome, father!" she laughed and cried Together, the Princess Anne.

"Lo, here thy Singing Leaves," quoth he;
"And wo, but they cost me dear!"
She took the packet, and her smile.
Deepened down beneath the tear.

It deepened down to her very heart,
And then flushed back again,

And lighted her tears as the sudden sun
Transfigures the summer rain.

And the first leaf, when she opened it,
Sang, "I am Walter, the page,

And the songs I sing 'neath thy window

Are all my heritage!"

And the second leaf sang, "But in the land

That is neither on earth or sea,

My harp and I are lords of more

Than thrice this kingdom's fee!"

And the third leaf sang, "Be mine! be mine!"
And still it sang, "Be mine!"

Then sweeter it sang and ever sweeter,
And said, "I am thine, thine, thine !"

At the first leaf she grew pale enough,
At the second she turned aside,
At the third, 'twas as if a lily flushed
With a rose's red heart's tide.