When Margaret laughs.

Oh, youth! for her so bright and gay,
Oh, years! that slip so fast away,
Keep her, I pray thee, fresh and fair,
Dainty, bewitching, debonair,
For life is but a holiday
When Margaret laughs.

GEORGE B. KILBOURNE.
_Williams Literary Monthly._

~The Captive.~

I've sought for Cupid by day and night,
But he always contrived to elude me,
And kept discreetly out of my sight,
Nor showed his face, the crafty wight,
Nor e'er for a moment sued me.

And often while for his face I sought
I thought with a thrill I had found him,
By my little wiles and my coaxing caught,
Or even for gold ignobly bought,
With his arrows and bow around him.

But now my pulse gives a fresh, wild start,
And a throb of joyous surprise, dear,
As I see him, armed with his subtle dart,
A fellow prisoner with my heart,
In the depths of your hazel eyes, dear.

GUY WETMORE CARRYL.
_Columbia Spectator_

~The Difference.~

All in the days of long ago,
When Grandfather a-wooing went,
He looked a gallant, dashing beau,
And with his looks was well content

He rode beside My Lady's chair
With gracious salutation,
He vowed she was divinely fair
And told his adoration.

But now, alas, poor Grandfather
Would stand but sorry chances
Of passionately telling her
His bosom's sweetest fancies.

For since a wheel My Lady rides,
The bravest, gayest courtier
Would lose her, if he weren't besides
A fairly rapid scorcher.

H.K. WEBSTER.
_Hamilton Literary Monthly._

~The Lenten Maid.~

Her wonted smiles are turned to frowns,
Her laugh a sigh,
Sackcloth and ashes for ball gowns--
Ah, luckless I.

While worldly thought! away are gone,--
Her Lenten part,--
Does Cupid blunt his darts upon
A stony heart?

Ah, though her mirth and jollities
She puts aside,
The silent laughter of her eyes
She cannot hide.

S. R. KENNEDY.
_Yale Record_.

~Wealth.~

I like pretty maids flushed with joy,
With glad hair blowing free.
They smile right kind on many a boy,
But only one on me.
But I have a penny, a fiddle, and Joan,
And my sweet Joan has me.

Meadow and flock, the wise folk said,
It never were right to miss,
But my maid Joan has a kirtle red
And a merry mouth to kiss.
And I can fiddle and Joan can sing,
And what were better than this?

The young men talk of getting and gold,
And lands far over the sea.
But I and my fiddle will never grow