At her heart's one door
I entered to-day.

No palace standeth
As happy as this.
Love ever ruleth
Its precincts alone--
His sceptre a kiss,
And a smile his throne.

There is one Blanche feareth--
She loves not deceit--
She only wisheth
To dazzle his heart.
We promise to meet.
And separate depart.

XVII.

COMPARISONS.

The moon is like a shepherd with a flock of starry lambkins,
The wind is like a whisper to the mountains from the sea,
The sun a gold moth browsing on a flower's pearl-dusted pollen;
But my words can scarcely utter what my love is like to me.

She is the sun in light's magnificence across my heart's day shining,
She's the moon when through the heavens of my heart flash meteor dreams;
Her voice is fragrant south wind a silvery sentence blowing;
She is sweeter than the sweetest, she is better than she seems.

XVIII.

AN INQUIRY OF THE SEXTON.

"Sexton, was she here to-day
Who has met me oft before?
Did she come and go away,
Tired of waiting any more?
For I fancy some mistake
Has occurred about the time;
Yet, the hour has not yet passed;
Hark! the bells begin to chime.

"In her hair two roses woo,
One a white, and one a red.
Azure silk her dress might be,
Though she oft wears white instead.
Here, beside this marble cross,
Oft she kneels in silent prayer;
Tell me, has she been to-day,
In the church-yard anywhere?"

"No, the lady that you seek
Has not passed the gate to-day:
I've been digging at a grave,
And if she had come this way
I'd have seen her from my work.
She may come to meet you yet.
I remember well her looks.
Names, not faces, I forget."

XIX.

A RIVAL.

It seems I have a rival
Domiciled over the way;
But Blanche, dear heart, dislikes him,
Whatever her father may say--
This gorgeously broadclothed fellow,
Good enough in his way.

To-day as I left the church-yard,
I met them taking a ride,
And my heart was pierced like a buckler
With a javelin of pride;
I only saw in my anger
They were sitting side by side.

To-night, in the purple twilight,
Blanche waited upon the walk,
And beckoned her white hand to me--
A lily swayed on its stalk.
Soon my jealous pride was foundered
In the maelstrom of talk.

'Twas useless to go to the church-yard,
For some one had played the spy;
She fancied it was the sexton