To eye the comely milking-maid,

Herself so fresh and creamy. "Good day to you!" at last I said;

She turned her head to see me. "Good day!" she said with lifted head;

Her eyes looked soft and dreamy.

And all the while she milked and milked

The grave cow heavy-laden: I've seen grand ladies, plumed and silked, But not a sweeter maiden; But not a sweeter, fresher maid

Than this in homely cotton,

Whose pleasant face and silky braid

I have not yet forgotten.

Seven springs have passed since then, as I Count with sober sorrow;

Seven springs have come and passed me by,
And spring sets in to-morrow.

I've half a mind to shake myself
Free, just for once, from London,
To set my work upon the shelf,

And leave it done or undone;

To run down by the early train,

Whirl down with shriek and whistle,
And feel the bluff north blow again,
And mark the sprouting thistle
Set up on waste patch of the lane
Its green and tender bristle;

And spy the scarce-blown violet banks,
Crisp primrose-leaves and others,
And watch the lambs leap at their pranks,
And butt their patient mothers.

Alas! one point in all my plan

My serious thoughts demur to: Seven years have passed for maid and man, Seven years have passed for her too.

Perhaps my rose is overblown,

Not rosy or too rosy;

Perhaps in farm-house of her own

Some husband keeps her cosy, Where I should show a face unknown. Good-by, my wayside posy!

CHRISTIANA GEORGIANA ROSSETTI.

WOMEN AND CHILDREN. H! if no faces were beheld on earth But toiling manhood and repining age, No welcome eyes of innocence and mirth To look upon us kindly, who would wage

FROM LITTLE RED RIDING

HOOD.

THE fields were covered over

With colors as she went, Daisies, buttercups and clover Below her footsteps bent;

Summer shed its shining store;
She was happy as she pressed them
Beneath her little feet;

She plucked them and caressed them,
They were so very sweet;

They had never seemed so sweet before

To Red Riding Hood, the darling,
The flower of fairy lore.

She seems like an ideal love,
The poetry of childhood shown,
And yet loved with a real love,
As if she were our own,

A younger sister for the heart.
Like the woodland pheasant,

Her hair is brown and bright;
And her smile is pleasant
With its rosy light.

Never can the memory part

With Red Riding Hood, the darling,
The flower of fairy lore.

Too long in the meadow staying,
Where the cowslip bends,
With the buttercups delaying
As with early friends,

Did the little maiden stay.
Sorrowful the tale for us;

We, too, loiter 'mid life's flowers,

A little while so glorious,

So soon lost in darker hours.

All love lingering on their way
Like Red Riding Hood, the darling,
The flower of fairy lore.

LETITIA E. LANDON. (Mrs. L. E. L. McLean.)

THE HUSBANDMAN.

EARTH, of man the bounteous mother,

Feeds him still with corn and wine;

He who best would aid a brother
Shares with him these gifts divine.
Many a power within her bosom,

Noiseless, hidden, works beneath;
Hence are seed and leaf and blossom,
Golden ear, and clustered wreath.
These to swell with strength and beauty
Is the royal task of man;
Man's a king, his throne is duty,

Since his work on earth began.

Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage,
These, like man, are fruits of earth;
Stamped in clay, a heavenly mintage,
All from dust receive their birth.
Barn and mill, and wine-vat's treasures,
Earthly goods, for earthly lives,
These are Nature's ancient pleasures,
These her child from her derives.

What the dream but vain rebelling,
If from earth we sought to flee?
'Tis our stored and ample dwelling,
'Tis from it the skies we see.

Wind and frost, and hour and season,
Land and water, sun and shade,
Work with these, as bides thy reason,
For they work thy toil to aid.

Sow thy seed and reap in gladness:
Man himself is all a seed;
Hope and hardship, joy and sadness.
Slow the plant to ripeness lead
JOHN STIRLING