nice as light.
The waters swirled so swift that in the noise
Clara grew dizzy; Gilbert lost his poise,
And lost an oar; with a confusing shock
The boat was grinding--stopped against a rock.
"Gilbert, my dear, are we not going down?"
"Dearest, my love, we were not born to drown.
Oh, kiss me; we are safe; and grant me now
Yourself. I'll gather lilies for your brow;
And Hugh will know that I have won the race,
And Clara, my dear wife, her rightful place."

THE WOLF-TAMER.

Through the gorge of snow we go,
Tracking, tramping soft and slow,
With our paws and sheathed claws,
So we swing along the snow,
Crowding, crouching to your pipes--
Shining serpents! Well you know,
When your lips shall cease to blow
Airs that lure us through the snow,
We shall fall upon your race
Who do wear a different face.
Who were spared in yonder vale?
Not a man to tell the tale!
Blow, blow, serpent pipes,
Slow we follow:--all our troop--
Every wolf of wooded France,
Down from all the Pyrenees--
Shall they follow, follow you,
In your dreadful music-trance?
Mark it by our tramping paws,
Hidden fangs, and sheathed claws?
You have seen the robber bands
Tear men's tongues and cut their hands,
For ransom--we ask none--begone,
For the tramping of our paws,
Marking all your music's laws,
Numbs the lust of ear and eye;
Or--let us go beneath the snow,
And silent die--as wolves should die!

THE ABBOT OF UNREASON.

I looked over the balustrade--
The twilight had come--
And saw the pretty waiting-maid
Kiss Roland, the page.

My lady heard the wolf-dog's chain
Clank on the floor;
Sly Roland caught it up again,
And whistled a song.

Oh! they think that my heart is cold,
Under my gown;
Not till I blacken into mould
Will it cease to burn.

Burn, burn for such sweet red lips!
I am almost mad,
Even to touch her finger tips,
When we meet alone.

Roland, the page, goes here and there,
Loving, and loved,
Women like his devil-may-care,
Till they are forgot!

Whether I am in castle or inn,
With sinner or saint,
Never can I a woman win,--
I am but a priest!

EL MANOLO.

In the still, dark shade of the palace wall,
Where the peacocks strut,
Where the queen may have heard my madrigal,
Together we sat.

My sombrero hid the fire in my e