g casements light them on toward home, or
home-brewed liquor.

It is--in brief--the evening: that pure and pleasant time,
When stars break into splendor, and poets into rhyme;
When in the glass of Memory the forms of loved ones shine--
And when, of course, Miss Goodchild is prominent in mine.

Miss Goodchild--Julia Goodchild!--how graciously you smiled
Upon my childish passion once, yourself a fair-haired child:
When I was (no doubt) profiting by Dr. Crabb's instruction,
And sent those streaky lollipops home for your fairy suction.

"She wore" her natural "roses, the night when first we met,"--
Her golden hair was gleaming neath the coercive net:
"Her brow was like the snawdrift," her step was like Queen Mab's,
And gone was instantly the heart of every boy at Crabb's.

The parlor-boarder chasseed tow'rds her on graceful limb;
The onyx decked his bosom--but her smiles were not for him:
With _me_ she danced--till drowsily her eyes "began to blink,"
And _I_ brought raisin wine, and said, "Drink, pretty creature,
drink!"

And evermore, when winter comes in his garb of snows,
And the returning schoolboy is told how fast he grows;
Shall I--with that soft hand in mine--enact ideal Lancers,
And dream I hear demure remarks, and make impassioned answers.

I know that never, never may her love for me return--
At night I muse upon the fact with undisguised concern--
But ever shall I bless that day!--I don't bless, as a rule,
The days I spent at "Dr. Crabb's Preparatory School."

And yet we two may meet again,--(Be still, my throbbing heart!)
Now rolling years have weaned us from jam and raspberry-tart.
One night I saw a vision--'twas when musk-roses bloom,
I stood--_we_ stood--upon a rug, in a sumptuous dining-room:

One hand clasped hers--one easily reposed upon my hip--
And "Bless ye!" burst abruptly from Mr. Goodchild's lip:
I raised my brimming eye, and saw in hers an answering gleam--
My heart beat wildly--and I woke, and lo! it was a dream.

CHANGED

I know not why my soul is racked;
Why I ne'er smile, as was my wont
I only know that, as a fact,
I don't.

I used to roam o'er glen and glade,
Buoyant and blithe as other folk,
And not unfrequently I made
A joke.

A minstrel's fire within