Somewhat of soft excuse that they were

wont

To linger long amid the prophets' school,
Learning the holy law their father loved.

His sweet repast with sweet discourse was blent

God

Two spotless lambs well pleasing in his

sight.

hadst seen

With me the golden morning break to light Yon mountain-summits whose blue, waving line

Faintly she smiled: "One doubt, my lord, I fain would have thee solve:

may

stern

near

priest,

Clad in his robe pontifical, invoked

The God of Abraham, while from lute and harp,

Cymbal and trump and psaltery and glad breath

Of tuneful Levite, and the mighty shout
Of all our people, like the swelling sea,
Loud hallelujahs burst. When next I seek
Blest Zion's glorious hill, our beauteous boys
Must bear me company: their early prayers
Will rise as incense. Thy reluctant love
No longer must withhold them the new toil
Will give them sweeter sleep and touch their
cheek

With brighter crimson. 'Mid their raven curls

My hand I'll lay, and dedicate them there,

claim

His own again!"-"Nay, rabbi; come be

hold

These priceless jewels ere I yield them back."

So to their spousal-chamber with soft hand Her lord she led. There, on a snow-white couch,

Lay his two sons, pale, pale and motionless, Like fair twin-lilies which some grazing kid In wantonness had cropped. "My sons! my sons!

Light of my eyes!" the astonished father cried;

"My teachers in the law, whose guileless hearts

And prompt obedience warned me oft to be More perfect with my God!"

To earth he fell Like Lebanon's rent cedar, while his breast Heaved with such groans as when the laboring soul

Breaks from its clay companion's close embrace.

The mourning mother turned away and wept Till the first storm of passionate grief was still;

Then, pressing to his ear her faded lip,

Mary, I dare not call thee dear,
I've lost that right so long;
Yet once again I vex thine ear

With memory's idle song.
I felt a pride to name thy name,

But now that pride hath flown,
And burning blushes speak my shame
That thus I love thee on.

How loth to part, how fond to meet, Had we two used to be!

I hastened unto thee!

Scarce nine days passed us ere we met

In spring-nay, wintry-weather; Now nine years' suns have risen and set, Nor found us once together.

Thy face was so familiar grown,

Thyself so often nigh,

A moment's memory when alone
Would bring thee in mine eye,
But now my very dreams forget

That witching look to trace; Though there thy beauty lingers yet, It wears a stranger's face.

When last that gentle cheek I prest
And heard thee feign adieu,
I little thought that seeming jest
Would prove a word so true.
A fate like this hath oft befell

Even loftier hopes than ours: Spring bids full many buds to swell That ne'er can grow to flowers.

I.

A DANGEROUS MISSION.

HAT a strange commotion has prevailed in the house all day! servants hurrying hither and thither, young people nailing up elaborate devices in ivy and holly, mysterious packfrom town being opened, and even hampers of borrowed silver and crystal coming in from our neighbors across the Downs. It reminds one of the noise and bustle that reign in a theatre when the last rehearsals of a pantomime are being pushed forward; and our stage-manager-she is about five feet three, with a Tower of Babel on her head and a white rose near her neckkeeps whipping about from room to room, making everybody fly before her as if she were a combination of several whirlwinds. But when she comes into this particular room, it is to be observed that there is on her face a subdued expression of triumph and revenge which is not in conwhich is not in consonance with wifely sentiment.

"Will it please Your Most Gracious Majesty "this is the way in which it is safest to address Queen Tita when she is in a hurry-" to tell me how much wine you women and children are likely to drink to-morrow night?"

"As there are to be no gentlemen of the party," she says, with perfect sweetness, "I

think you need not fear leaving us the key of the cellar."

She is off again in a moment. It is always the way with those women. Before you have your answer ready (and, of course, you wish to give it due consideration, lest it should cause pain) they are round the corner, through the hall, and pretending to count bonbons on the dining-room sideboard. This particular young person never admits that she says anything rude or impertinent or calculated to annoy, but somehow, just after uttering a little sentence or two, she has a trick of disappearing suddenly, leaving the conversation to be continued in our next. What could any one say to the insinuation about the wine consumed by one's gentleman-friends at dinner? And here it may be necessary to explain why, with all these preparations going forward, our party to-morrow is to consist exclusively of women and children. 'Tis a sad story, but it shall be told without concealment or extenuation. We are a small community down here in Surrey, consisting of half a dozen families and pretty well thrown in upon ourselves for amusement and social recreation. We dine at each other's houses; we listen to each other's wives singing all the well-known songs over again; we fall asleep in the drawing-room, and are then woke up to be driven home to bed. This form of existence is highly moral and proper, but it is not exciting. In the summer-time, of course, we have our walks by the side of