Her I loved in fifty-three?
Yes? All right, then go and find
Mother's picture--"Papa!"--Mind!
She and I were married. You
Were our youngest. Now you, too,
Raise the same old anthems till
All the church is hushed and still
With a single soul to hear.
Do I flatter? Ah, my dear,
Time has brought my last desire--
Tildy still _is_ in the choir!

FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES.
_Wesleyan Literary Monthly_.


~A Memory.~

We sat in the lamplight's gentle glow,
Alone on the winding stair,
And the distant strains of a waltz fell low
On the fragrance-laden air.
I caught from her lips a murmured "yes,"
And the stately palms amid
There came a blissful, sweet caress--
I shouldn't have--but I did!

I might forget that joyous night,
As the months slip swiftly by;
I might forget the gentle light