Grand'ther Baldwin's Thanksgiving, with Other Ballads and Poems. Alger Horatio Jr.

And whose love compared with my passion-heat,

             As the snow of the frozen North, is cold?"

           And Rose—I could feel her cheek grow pale—

             Her voice was tremulous, then grew strong—

           "Richard," she said, "your words are wild,

             And you do my guardian bitter wrong.

           "Did you never hear how, years gone by,"—

             She spoke in a tremulous undertone—

           "Bereft of friends, o'er the world's highways,

             I wandered forth as a child alone?

           "He opened to me his home and heart—

             He whom you call so stern and cold—

           And my grateful heart I may well bestow

             On him for his kindness manifold."

           "Rose," he said, in a saddened tone,

             "I thank him for all he has done for thee;

           He has acted nobly—I did him wrong—

             But is there no voice in your heart for me?"

           And Rose—she trembled—I felt it all;

             I heard her quick breath come and go;

           Her voice was broken; she only said,

             "Have pity, Richard, and let me go!"

           And then—Heaven gave me strength, I think—

             I stood before them calm and still;

           You might have thought my tranquil breast

             Had never known one passion-thrill.

           And they alternate flushed and paled;

             Rose tottered, and I feared would fall;

           I caught her in supporting arms,

             And whispered, "Rose, I heard it all.

           "I had a dream, but it is passed,

             That we might journey, hand in hand

           Along the rugged steeps of life,

             Until we reached God's promised land.

           "This was my dream;—'tis over now;—

             Thank Heaven, it is not yet too late!

           I pray no selfish act of mine

             May keep two young hearts separate."

           I placed her passive hand in his—

             With how much pain God only knows—

           And blessing him for her sweet sake,

             I left him standing with my Rose!

      PHOEBE'S WOOING

           "PHOEBE! Phoebe! Where is the chit?

             When I want her most she's out of the way.