In awe-inspiring ruff. We'll brave their ire
And trip a minuet. You will not?--Fie!
Those mocking lips half make me wish that I,
Her grandson, might have been my own grandsire.

_Trinity Tablet_.

~A Picture.~

On spinet old, Clarissa plays
The melodies of by-gone days.
Forgotten fugue, a solemn tune,
The bars of stately rigadoon.
With head bent down to scan each note,
A crimson ribbon round her throat,
The very birds to sing forget
As some old-fashioned minuet
Clarissa plays.

King George long since has passed away,
And minuets have had their day.
Within a hidden attic nook
Covered with dust, her music-book.
Gone are the keys her fingers pressed.
The bunch of roses at her breast.
But still, unmindful of time's flight,
With face so fair and hands so white,
Clarissa plays.

EDWARD B. REED.
_Yale Literary Magazine._

~Tildy in the Choir.~

Lines that ripple, notes that dance,
Foreign measures brought from France,
Reaching with a careless ease
From high C to--where you please,
Clever, frivolous, and gay--
These will answer in their way;
But that tune of long ago--
Stately, solemn, somewhat slow
(Dear "Old Hundred"--that's the air)--
Will outrank them anywhere;
Once it breathed a seraph's fire.
(Tildy sang it in the choir.)

How she stood up straight and tall!
Ah! again I see it all;
Cheeks that glowed and eyes that laughed,
Teeth like cream, and lips that quaffed
All the genial country's wealth
Of large cheer and perfect health,
Gown--well, yes--old-fashioned quite,
_You_ would call it "just a fright,"
But I love that quaint attire.
(Tildy wore it in the choir.)

How we sang--for _I_ was there,
Occupied a singer's chair
Next to--well, no prouder man
Ever lifts the bass, nor can,
Sometimes held the self-same book,
(How my nervous fingers shook!)
Sometimes--wretch--while still the air
Echoed to the parson's prayer,
I would whisper in her ear
What she could not help but hear.
Once, I told her my desire.
(Tildy promised in the choir.)

Well, those days are past, and now
Come gray hairs, and yet somehow
I can't think those years have fled--
Still those roadways know my tread,
Still I climb that old pine stair,
Sit upon the stiff-backed chair,
Stealing glances toward my left
Till her eyes repay the theft;
Death's a dream and Time's a liar--
Tildy still is in the choir.

Come, Matilda number two,
_Fin de siecle _maiden you!
Wonder if you'd like to see
Her I loved in fifty-thre