Halfway up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands
From its case of massive oak,

Like a monk, who, under his cloak,
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!
With sorrowful voice to all who pass,-
"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

By day its voice is low and light;
But in the silent dead of night,
Distinct as a passing footstep's fall,
It echoes along the vacant hall,
Along the ceiling, along the floor,
And seems to say, at each chamber-door,—
"Forever-never !
Never-forever!"

Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
Through days of death and days of birth,
Through every swift vicissitude

Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood,
And as if, like God, it all things saw,
It calmly repeats those words of awe,—
"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted Hospitality;

His great fires up by the chimney roared;
The stranger feasted at his board;

But, like the skeleton at the feast,
That warning timepiece never ceased,—
"Forever-never!
Never-forever!"

There groups of merry children played,
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed;

O precious hours! O golden prime,
And affluence of love and time!

Even as a miser counts his gold,
Those hours the ancient timepiece told,—
"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

From that chamber, clothed in white,

The bride came forth on her wedding night:
There, in that silent room below,

The dead lay in his shroud of snow;
And in the hush that followed the prayer,
Was heard the old clock on the stair,—
"Forever-never!
Never-forever!"

All are scattered now and fled,
Some are married, some are dead;
And when I ask, with throbs of pain,
"Ah! when shall they all meet again
As in the days long-since gone by,
The ancient timepiece makes reply,—
"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

Never here, forever there,
Where all parting, pain, and care,
And death, and time shall disappear,-
Forever there, but never here!

The horologe of Eternity
Sayeth this incessantly,—
"Forever-never !
Never-forever!"

B

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR

ETWEEN the dark and the daylight,

When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret

O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am

Is not a match for you all?

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,

But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you for ever,
Yes, for ever and a day,

Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!

JOHN ALDEN AND PRISCILLA

(From "The Courtship of Miles Standish ")

THE do not condemn you;

HEREUPON answered the youth, "Indeed, I

Stouter hearts than a woman's have quailed in this terrible winter.

Yours is tender and trusting, and needs a stronger to lean on;

So I am come to you now with an offer and proffer of marriage,

Made by a good man and true-Miles Standish, the Captain of Plymouth."

Mute with amazement and sorrow, Priscilla, the Puritan maiden,

Looked into Alden's face, her eyes dilated with won

der,

Feeling his words like a blow, that stunned her and rendered her speechless;

Till at length she exclaimed, interrupting the ominous silence:

"If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me,

Why does he not come himself, and take the trouble to woo me?

If I am not worth the wooing, I am surely not worth the winning!"

Then John Alden began explaining and smoothing the matter,

Making it worse, as he went, by saying the Captain was busy

Had no time for such things. "Such things!" the words, grating harshly,

Fell on the ear of Priscilla; and, swift as a flash, she made answer:

"Has no time for such things, as you call it, before he is married;

Would he be likely to find it, or make it, after the wedding?

That is the way with you men; you don't understand us, you cannot.

When you have made up your minds, after thinking of this one and that one,

Choosing, selecting, comparing one with another, Then you make known your desires, with abrupt and sudden avowal,

And are offended and hurt, and indignant, perhaps, that a woman

Does not respond at once to a love that she never suspected,

Does not attain at a bound the height to which you have been climbing.

This is not right nor just: for surely a woman's affection

Is not a thing to be asked for—and had only for the

asking.

When one is truly in love, one not only says it, but shows it.

Had he but waited awhile-had he only showed that he loved me

Even this Captain of yours-who knows? at last might have won me,

Old and rough as he is; but now it can never happen."

Still John Alden went on, unheeding the words of Priscilla,

Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, persuading, expanding:

He was a man of honor, of noble and generous nature; Though he was rough, he was kindly; she had known how, during the winter,