~Hours.~

Matchless, melting eyes of brown,
This is but a cheerless town;
You should beam 'neath warmer skies,
Matchless, melting, dark brown eyes.

Yours should be a land of flowers,
Perfumed air and sunny hours;
Eastern fires within you rise,
Matchless, melting, dark brown eyes.

Eyes of beauty, eyes of light,
Burning mystically bright,
Prithee here no longer stay,
You will burn my heart away.

W.
_Hamilton Literary Monthly_.

~A Fickle Heart.~

A fickle heart! Let subtler poets sing
Of changeless love and all that kind of thing,
Of hearts in which a passion never dies--
_My_ heart's as fickle as the summer skies
Across whose face the changing cloud-forms wing.

Unfailing loves unfailing troubles bring.
I love to touch on Cupid's harp each string,
Though each unto my questioning touch replies
A fickle heart.

So, 'twixt some thirty loves I'm wavering,
To each the same unstable vows I fling,
Reading the first glad gleam of love's surprise
In thirty pair of brown and azure eyes,
Finding in all the same thought answering;
A fickle heart.

GUY WETMORE CARRYL.
_Columbia Spectator._

~My Lady goes to the Play.~

With the link-boys running on before
To light her on her way,
A-lounging in her sedan goes
Belinda to the play.

In patch and powder, puff and frill,
From satin shoe to hair,
Of all the maids in London town
I wot there's none so fair!

From Mayfair down along the Strand
To Covent Garden's light,
Where Master David Garrick acts
In a new role to-night,

The swinging sedan takes its way,
And with expectant air
Belinda fans, and wonders who
To-night there will be there.

Sir Charles, perhaps, or, happy thought,
Flushing thro' her powder,
He might come in--beneath her stays
She feels her heart beat louder.

The place, at last! The flunkies set
Their dainty burden down,
"Lud, what a crowd!" My Lady frowns
And gathers up her gown.

ENVOY.

Alack for human loveliness
And for its little span!
Where's Belinda? Here, quite fresh,
Are still her gown and fan!

ARTHUR KETCHUM.
_Williams Literary Monthly._

~Confession and Avoidance.~

They say that you're a flirt at best,
And warn me to beware: your glances
Would make, they say, a treach'rous test
By which to gauge a fellow's chances.
And yet--I love you so! a throng
Of passions bid me speak to-day.
Ah! darling, tell me they are wrong!
Are you as heartless as they say?

Am I? well,