FAMILIAR LOVE.

WE read together, reading the same book,
Our heads bent forward in a half embrace,
So that each shade that either spirit took
Was straight reflected in the other's face:
We read, not silent, nor aloud, but each
Followed the eye that passed the page along,

With a low murmuring sound, that was not speech,
Yet with so much monotony,

In its half slumbering harmony,

You might not call it song;

More like a bee, that in the noon rejoices,
Than any customed mood of human voices.
Then if some wayward or disputed sense
Made cease awhile that music, and brought on

A strife of gracious-worded difference,

Too light to hurt our souls' dear unison,

We had experience of a blissful state,

In which our powers of thought stood separate.
Each, in its own high freedom, set apart,
But both close folded in one loving heart;
So that we seem'd, without conceit, to be
Both one and two in our identity.

We pray'd together, praying the same prayer,
But each that pray'd did seem to be alone,
And saw the other in a golden air
Poised far away, beneath a vacant throne,
Beckoning the kneeler to arise and sit
Within the glory which encompast it:
And when obeyed, the vision stood beside,
And led the way through the upper hyaline,

FAMILIAR LOVE.

The beauty of the Spirit-Bride,
Who guided the rapt Florentine.

The depth of human reason must become
As deep as is the holy human heart,
Ere aught in written phrases can impart
The might and meaning of that ecstasy
To those low souls, who hold the mystery
Of the unseen universe for dark and dumb.

But we were mortal still, and when again
We raised our bended knees, I do not say
That our descending spirits felt no pain.
To meet the dimness of an earthly day;
Yet not as those disheartened, and the more
Debased, the higher that they rose before,
But, from the exaltation of that hour,
Out of God's choicest treasury, bringing down
New virtue to sustain all ill, -new power
To braid life's thorns into a regal crown,
We pass'd into the outer world, to prove
The strength miraculous of united Love.

Richard Monckton Milnes.

A WIFE'S APPEAL TO HER HUSBAND.

You took me, Henry, when a girl, into your home and heart,
To bear in all your after-fate a fond and faithful part;

And tell me, have I ever tried that duty to forego,

Or pined there was not joy for me when you were sunk in woe?

A WIFE'S APPEAL TO HER HUSBAND.

No, I would rather share your grief than other people's glee;
For though you're nothing to the world, you're all the world to me.
You make a palace of my shed, this rough-hewn bench a throne;
There's sunlight for me in your smile, and music in your tone.

I look upon you when you sleep-my eyes with tears grow dim;
I cry, "O! Parent of the poor, look down from heaven on him!
Behold him toil, from day to day, exhausting strength and soul;
Look down in mercy on him, Lord, for Thou canst make him whole!"

And when, at last, relieving sleep has on my eyelids smiled,
How oft are they forbid to close in slumber by my child!
I take the little murmurer that spoils my span of rest,
And feel it is a part of thee I hold upon my breast.

There's only one return I crave-I may not need it long-
And it may soothe thee when I'm where the wretched feel no wrong.
I ask not for a kinder tone, for thou wert ever kind;

I ask not for less frugal fare-my fare I do not mind.

I ask not for more gay attire—if such as I have got
Suffice to make me fair to thee, for more I murmur not;
But I would ask some share of hours that you in toil bestow;
Of knowledge that you prize so much, may I not something know?

Subtract from meetings amongst men each eve an hour for me;
Make me companion for your soul, as I may surely be;

If you will read, I'll sit and work; then think, when you're away,
Less tedious I shall find the time, dear Henry, of your stay.

A meet companion soon I'll be for e'en your studious hours,
And teacher of those little ones you call your cottage-flowers:
And if we be not rich and great, we may be wise and kind;
And as my heart can warm your heart, so may my mind your mind.
Anonymous.

THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT.

My baby! my poor little one: thou'rt come a winter flower,-
A pale and tender blossom, in a cold, unkindly hour:

Thou comest with the snowdrop, and, like that pretty thing,
The Power that call'd my bud to life will shield its blossoming.

The snowdrop hath no guardian leaves to fold her safe and warm,
Yet well she bides the bitter blast, and weathers out the storm;
I shall not long enfold thee thus-not long-but well I know,
The Everlasting Arms, my babe, will never let thee go.

The snowdrop-how it haunts me still!-hangs down her fair young head;

So thine may droop in days to come, when I have long been dead;
And yet the little snowdrop's safe! from her instruction seek,
For who would crush the motherless, the lowly and the meek?

Yet motherless thou'lt not be long-not long in name, my life!
Thy father soon will bring him home another, fairer wife:
Be loving, dutiful to her-find favour in her sight-
But never, O my child, forget thine own poor mother quite.

But who will speak to thee of her? the gravestone at her head
Will only tell the name, and age, and lineage of the dead!
But not a word of all the love-the mighty love for thee-
That crowded years into an hour of brief maternity.

They'll put my picture from its place, to fix another there-
That picture that was thought so like, and yet so passing fair;
Some chamber in thy father's house, they'll let thee call thine own-
O take it there; to look upon when thou art all alone!