I. THE GARDEN.

ABOVE the city hung the moon,
 Right o'er a plot of ground
Where flowers and orchard-trees were fenced
 With lofty walls around:
'Twas Gilbert's garden­there, to-night
 Awhile he walked alone;
And, tired with sedentary toil,
 Mused where the moonlight shone. 

This garden, in a city-heart,
 Lay still as houseless wild,
Though many-windowed mansion fronts
 Were round it closely piled;
But thick their walls, and those within
 Lived lives by noise unstirred;
Like wafting of an angel's wing,
 Time's flight by them was heard. 

Some soft piano-notes alone
 Were sweet as faintly given,
Where ladies, doubtless, cheered the hearth
 With song, that winter-even.
The city's many-mingled sounds
 Rose like the hum of ocean;
They rather lulled the heart than roused
 Its pulse to faster motion. 

Gilbert has paced the single walk
 An hour, yet is not weary;
And, though it be a winter night,
 He feels nor cold nor dreary.
The prime of life is in his veins,
 And sends his blood fast flowing,
And Fancy's fervour warms the thoughts
 Now in his bosom glowing. 

Those thoughts recur to early love,
 Or what he love would name, 
Though haply Gilbert's secret deeds 
 Might other title claim.
Such theme not oft his mind absorbs, 
 He to the world clings fast,
And too much for the present lives, 
 To linger o'er the past. 

But now the evening's deep repose 
 Has glided to his soul;
That moonlight falls on Memory, 
 And shows her fading scroll.
One name appears in every line
 The gentle rays shine o'er,
And still he smiles and still repeats 
 That one name­Elinor. 

There is no sorrow in his smile, 
 No kindness in his tone;
The triumph of a selfish heart 
 Speaks coldly there alone;
He says: ' She loved me more than life; 
 And truly it was sweet
To see so fair a woman kneel, 
 In bondage, at my feet. 

There was a sort of quiet bliss 
 To be so deeply loved,
To gaze on trembling eagerness 
 And sit myself unmoved. 
And when it pleased my pride to grant,
 At last some rare caress,
To feel the fever of that hand
 My fingers deigned to press. 

'Twas sweet to see her strive to hide
 What every glance revealed;
Endowed, the while, with despot-might
 Her destiny to wield.
I knew myself no perfect man,
 Nor, as she deemed, divine;
I knew that I was glorious­but
 By her reflected shine; 

Her youth, her native energy,
 Her powers new-born and fresh,
'Twas these with Godhead sanctified
 My sensual frame of flesh.
Yet, like a god did I descend
 At last, to meet her love;
And, like a god, I then withdrew
 To my own heaven above. 

And never more could she invoke
 My presence to her sphere;
No prayer, no plaint, no cry of hers
 Could win my awful ear.
I knew her blinded constancy
 Would ne'er my deeds betray, 
And, calm in conscience, whole in heart,
 I went my tranquil way. 

Yet, sometimes, I still feel a wish,
 The fond and flattering pain
Of passion's anguish to create,
 In her young breast again.
Bright was the lustre of her eyes,
 When they caught fire from mine;
If I had power­this very hour,
 Again I 'd light their shine. 

But where she is, or how she lives,
 I have no clue to know;
I 've heard she long my absence pined,
 And left her home in woe.
But busied, then, in gathering gold,
 As I am busied now,
I could not turn from such pursuit,
 To weep a broken vow. 

Nor could I give to fatal risk
 The fame I ever prized;
Even now, I fear, that precious fame
 Is too much compromised.'
An inward trouble dims his eye,
 Some riddle he would solve;
Some method to unloose a knot,
 His anxious thoughts revolve. 

He, pensive, leans against a tree,
 A leafy evergreen,
The boughs, the moonlight, intercept, 
 And hide him like a screen;
He starts­the tree shakes with his tremor, 
 Yet nothing near him pass'd,
He hurries up the garden alley, 
 In strangely sudden haste. 

With shaking hand, he lifts the latchet, 
 Steps o'er the threshold stone;
The heavy door slips from his fingers, 
 It shuts, and he is gone.
What touched, transfixed, appalled, his soul ? 
 A nervous thought, no more;
'Twill sink like stone in placid pool, 
 And calm close smoothly o'er. 


II. THE PARLOUR.

WARM is the parlour atmosphere,
 Serene the lamp's soft light;
The vivid embers, red and clear,
 Proclaim a frosty night.
Books, varied, on the table lie,
 Three children o'er them bend,
And all, with curious, eager eye,
 The turning leaf attend. 

Picture and tale alternately
 Their simple hearts delight,
And interest deep, and tempered glee,
 Illume their aspects bright;
The pa