Let her hear what poet's voice never caught nor sung: Let a child ring the bells little hares have rung!

Soft she whispers to the flowers, bending o'er them there

Let me ring your bonny bells! I'm a little hare!

No, I'm only a little child, but I love you so!
Let me ring your little bells, just to say, you know.
Harebells, blue bells, ring, ring again!

Set a-going, little child, the joyaunce of the strain.

Oh, the look upon her face for the music heard!
Is it wind in fairy soughs? Is it far-off bird?
Does the child hear melody grown folk cannot hear?
Is the harebells' music now chiming on her ear?
Father, give this little child, as she goeth on,
Evermore to keep the gift by this music won;
Gift which makes this earth of ours very Paradise
For delight of opened ears, joy of opened eyes.

Harebells, joy bells, love bells, dear and blest,
Ring in the sacredness of her happy breast.

MRS. MEYNELL.

THE SHEPHERDESS

She walks-the lady of my delight—

A shepherdess of sheep.

Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white;
She guards them from the steep.

She feeds them on the fragrant height,

And folds them in for sleep.

She roams maternal hills and bright,
Dark valleys safe and deep.

Into her tender breast at night

The chastest stars may peep.
She walks the lady of my delight-
A shepherdess of sheep.

She holds her little thoughts in sight,
Though gay they run and leap.
She is so circumspect and right;
She has her soul to keep.

She walks the lady of my delight-
A shepherdess of sheep.

MISS MAY PROBYN.

CHRISTMAS CAROL

Lacking samite and sable,

Lacking silver and gold,

The Prince Jesus in the poor stable
Slept, and was three hours old.

As doves by the fair water,

Mary, not touched of sin,

Sat by Him, the King's daughter,
All glorious within.

A lily without one stain, a

Star where no spot hath room.

Ave, gratia plena

Virgo Virginum.

Clad not in pearl-sewn vesture,

Clad not in cramoisie,

She hath hushed, she hath cradled to rest, her

God the first time on her knee.

Where is one to adore Him?

The ox hath dumbly confessed,

With the ass, meek kneeling before Him,
Et homo factus est.

Not throned on ivory or cedar,

Not crowned with a Queen's crown,
At her breast it is Mary shall feed her
Maker, from Heaven come down.

The trees in Paradise blossom

Sudden, and its bells chimeShe giveth Him, held to her bosom, Her immaculate milk the first time.

The night with wings of angels

Was alight, and its snow-packed ways Sweet made (say the Evangels) With the noise of their virelays.

No smoke of spice is ascending
There no roses are piled-
But, choicer than all balms blending,
There Mary hath kissed her child.

Dilectus meus mihi

Et ego Illi-cold

Small cheek against her cheek, He

Sleepeth, three hours old.

VIOLET FANE (LADY CURRIE).

AFTERWARD

I know that these poor rags of womanhood—
This oaten pipe, whereon the wild winds play'd,
Making sad music,-tatter'd and outfray'd,
Cast off, play'd out,—can hold no more of good,
Of love, or song, or sense of sun and shade.

What homely neighbours elbow me (hard by
'Neath the black yews) I know I shall not know,
Nor take account of changing winds that blow,
Shifting the golden arrow, set on high

On the grey spire, nor mark who come and go.

Yet would I lie in some familiar place,

Nor share my rest with uncongenial dead,Somewhere may be, where friendly feet will tread,As if from out some little chink of space

Mine eyes might see them tripping overhead.

And though too sweet to deck a sepulchre
Seem twinkling daisy-buds and meadow-grass;
And so would more than serve me, lest they pass
Who fain would know what woman rested there,
What her demeanour, or her story was,-

For these I would that on a sculptured stone
(Fenced round with ironwork to keep secure),
Should sleep a form with folded palms demure,
In aspect like the dreamer that was gone,

With these words carved, I hoped, but was not sure.