POETRY.

A LOST. DARLING.

WHEN the snowdrop pierced the snow, And mezereon 'gun to blow, When the branches bare and stark Felt the life within the bark, In the midst of February, Came a beauteous little fairy,- Gift-like from the world unseen.

How I loved her pleasant mien, Doted on her artless ways, Held her treasure of my days!

Called her Titi, as the elf In baby accents styled herself.

Ah, what language could express Her form and temper's loveliness !

Nothing sweeter ever moved In a world by God beloved.

Gentle, graceful, kindly, quaint, Just a little earthly saint,- Ah, too earthly ! yet withal.

Music made her spiritual.

When the mighty masters spoke, And voice or instrument awoke, More than lies in mortal race

Lighted up her angel face,—

Gave her eyes the depth and fire Seen in Raphael's seraph quire. But, alas ! her life was brief.

When the earth was rich in leaf

And flower and sunshine, like a blight—

Turning day to hideous night,

Smiling summer in her pride—

The curse befell, and Titi died.

Ten full years, and all was gone, Leaving me heart-sick, hopeless, and alone. B. P.