kings. A listener might have heard low but impassioned accents breaking the stilness of night; for Ambrose was kneeling there, and had now only ventured to declare his love.

"My cousin," she said, "I am pledged to other duties. I may not forget that I am a daughter of the Church."

But the flusht face and trembling lips bore witness against her. She had forgotten her

early dream of self-sacrifice.

"Cecilia! my sweet Cecilia!" he replied, "that was a childish phantasy. The Church of England favors no such spiritual suicide. Women have nobler duties than to wither into saints in selfish solitude: you, my Cecilia, could never bear to freeze into a stone image, to fade from the world like a spectre. You would beat your hot heart with restless impatience against the prison bars. It cannot be, Cecilia: you will kill yourself and me."

At that moment a deep strain of what seemed organ music came floating on the midnight air. "There is the mystic music of St. Osyth," she said: "it comes to strengthen me. brose, you could not love me if I were perjured and untrue."

Am

"O

"O wild and vain dream!" he cried. dearest Cecilia ! Will you madden me with Shall mere musical echoes

those sophisms?

beguile you into superstition? No: you have too calm an intellect, too pure a heart.

с

Let

me go forth upon this search, knowing that I am beloved. Let me, if I find my father, gladden his heart with the happiest news he could hear."

"Would you have me," she said, "not only break my early vows, and forfeit my young hopes, but also promise myself to you while we are the victims of a terrible mystery?"

And she strove to grow firm and stern: but the pantings of that beautiful bosom too truly revealed that she was weak and loving.

"Cecil, my darling Cecil," said her lover, "it is vain to talk thus. Saint that you are, I have never dared to touch those lips: let me embrace you now. You are mine; mine for ever; mine for weal and woe, even to death."

And they clung to each other, those young creatures, in that agony of delight only known once in any life: and the unchanging stars, and the saints and heroes in the great oriel, looked down with favor on those irrevocable vows.

The next day Ambrose Bythesea started for the Rhineland.

Rhymes for Maq.

THE ANEMONE.

I.

WOOD Anemone !

Sweet south winds blow free

Down the mossy alleys, down the sylvan path;
Merle and mavis sing,

Larks are on the wing

High in open ether above the breezy strath:
And the zephyrs woo thee

In thy woodland palace :

Open to the soft spring air thy pale and slender chalice.

II.

Thou wast loved of yore

On a classic shore;

And Ionian maidens twined thee in their hair:
Brighter was the glow

Than thy petals know

Of the crimson blushes upon their temples rare.
Merrily they panted

Through the dusky alleys,

Flying from the swift Wind-god along the odorous valleys.

III.

Through the heavy branches,
While the swallow launches

On his dim brown pinions, skimmer of the tide;
While in gladness stray

Lovers of the May

Ankle-deep in blossom, where silent rivers glide;
Still thy leaflets tremble

As the fleet winds woo thee,

As, amid the fern and moss, their unseen feet pursue thee.

THE COMING OF THE MAY.

1.

COMES the silver-footed May

Dancing down the grassy glades,

And away, far, far away

Into misty regions grey

Old Winter fades.

11.

Hawthorn blossoms, pink and white,
Pale primrose and violet blue,
Tremble in the tremulous light,
To the low wind's amorous flight
The greenwood through.

III.

Comes the laughter-loving May

With her white unsandalled feet, Where cool waters lapse and play Under willow-branches grey,

In noontide heat.

IV.

And the blue-bells in her tresses,
And the lilies of her zone,
Brighten all the wood's recesses,
Fill the mossy wildernesses

With joys unknown.

V.

Comes the merry sweet-lipped May
By the margin of the sea,

And the waters murmur sweeter

Music, than in poet's metre

Can uttered be.

VI.

Out into the woodland air!

Spread white sails on waters green!

For the jocund May is there,

Scattering beauty everywhere

'Neath skies serene.

MAY, IN THE TEMPLE.

I.

THE May, whom poets love, is here,
Her tresses loose, her panting bosom
Nude to the joyous atmosphere,

Her snowy fingers wet with blossom.
She flings about her vernal gems
Where happy feet are wildly straying:
But I must linger by the Thames,
Nor ever wander forth a-Maying.

II.

Erewhile the Muse looked in on me,

But weary law-books vexed and harassed her : A very pretty thing 'twould be

A Goddess visiting a Barrister :

Alas for May in Potton Wood,

Or on the dancing waves of Isis!

While yet the world with flowers was strewed, Nor I had reached this legal crisis.

I'd almost rather be a coach

And help men through the son of Oloros,

Than grumble out my self-reproach

In chambers dusty, dull, and dolorous.

IV.

O could I vote the law a myth

And leave my lodgings near St. Pancras, To pic-nic by the megalith

Which stands upon the turf of L'Ancresse! That megalith is famous now;

(I redde it in the Athenæum) I'd rather see its old grey brow Than Venice or the Coliseum.