POETRY.

MITRIEL.

BENEATH the sheltering oak she lay,

And dreamed the love-long afternoon, That blent the burning height of day With the cool eve of royal June.

What are her dreams of?—Nay, who knows Whereon the perfect maiden dreams, Steeped in the perfume of the rose, Lulled by the murmur of the streams? Her longing life before her lies, Her puzzled childhood dies behind ; And many messages surprise Her soul from flower and cloud and wind.

What are your dreams of, opening bud, Whose happy blossom blooms so fair, When through the blue veins the red blood Flows on as freely as the air?

Sweet Muriel by the garden-oak, Unconscious of her nameless charm, Half-hears the fairy echoes woke By bangles dangled on her arm.

Without—the loving Sun doth kiss Mouth, cheek, and brow unchidden on Within—the music seems to miss The lovely face he looks upon.

For, seated by the piano soft, Old tunes her sister's touch recalls, Whose harmonies some sprite aloft Repeats along the drowsy walls.

Dream ! Muriel, dream ! half-knowing yet Whose image fills thy candid eyes, Yet all unable to forget The first sweet secret's first surprise.

He waits and works long miles away, Who touched the pure heart's virgin springs ; And something, from the dawn of day, For both a mystic burden sings.

The angel that upon her smiles In June's own leafy temple down, His few short hours of leisure wiles Away within the sultry town.

One thought—one angel—and one heart, Forgetful of the world of sense, Knit lives so seeming far apart In one bright bond of innocence.

Wait ! Muriel, wait ! an instinct true Straight through the void of man has flown, To pick from out the world, for you, A soul as loyal as your own.

And so she dreamed, and so she lay, And so the waiting message fell Along the changes of the day, Upon the face of Muriel.

• • • • • • •

L'ENVOI.

TO MY BIG DOG.

0 Poetry ! great is the mission

Which colours thy passionate track : But how are thy fancies Elysian Dispelled by the voice of John-Jack !'

He lies on the floor at St. Leonard's, While my genius I try to display ; But the more my ideas travel pen2ards, The more he will snore them away.

He snorts, and he snorks, and he snoreth, Like the satisfied dog that he be ; And my Muse so sonorously boreth,

That she'll grant no more favours to me.

His tail too,—by Jove he can whisk it, Which is rough upon bards that have none ; He thumps for a bone or a biscuit, And all inspiration's undone.

I thought that my notion was splendid, The stanzas so fluently ran, But I don't know how Muriel ended, And cannot think why she began.

He's at it again ! so distracted On Poetry turn I my back ; Bored audiencet never enacted Such eloquent snores as John-Jack !'

HERMAN MEEIVALE.

St. Leonard's, Tulse Hill, August 6th.