THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.

And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past,

Thy worn-out heart will break at last,

My Mary!

WILLIAM COWPER

THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.

IT is the miller's daughter,

And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel

That trembles at her ear;

For, hid in ringlets day and night,
I'd touch her neck, so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle

About her dainty, dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me

In sorrow and in rest;

And I should know if it beat right,
I'd clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace,

And all day long to fall and rise
Upon her balmy bosom

With her laughter or her sighs;
And I would lie so light, so light,
I scarce should be unclasped at night.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

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POOR lone Hannah,

Sitting at the window, binding shoes! Faded, wrinkled,

Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse! Bright-eyed beauty once was she, When the bloom was on the tree. Spring and Winter

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

HANNAH BINDING SHOES.

Not a neighbor

Passing nod or answer will refuse
To her whisper:

"Is there from the fishers any news?"
O, her heart's adrift with one
On an endless voyage gone!

Night and morning

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Fair young Hannah,

Ben, the sun-burnt fisher, gayly woos;
Hale and clever,

For a willing heart and hand he sues.
May-day skies are all a-glow,
And the waves are laughing so!
For her wedding

Hannah leaves her window and her shoes.

May is passing;

'Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon coos.
Hannah shudders;

For the mild southwester mischief brews.
Round the rocks of Marblehead,

Outward bound, a schooner sped.
Silent, lonesome,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

'Tis November;

Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews.
From Newfoundland

Not a sail returning will she lose;

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Malion, the children of whose love,

Each to his grave, in youths have past, And now the mould less fresh above The dearest and the last.

Pride, who dost wear the undew's vál

Refores the wedding flowers are pale,

He deem the human heart endors

THE LIVING LOST.

Whispering, hoarsely, "Fishermen,
Have you, have you heard of Ben?"
Old with watching,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Twenty Winters

Bleach and tear the ragged shore she views:
Twenty seasons;

Never one has brought her any news.
Still her dim eyes silently

Chase the white sails o'er the sea.
Hopeless, faithful,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

LUCY LARCOM.

THE LIVING LOST.

MATRON, the children of whose love,

Each to his grave, in youth have passed,

And now the mould is heaped above

The dearest and the last!

Bride, who dost wear the widow's veil
Before the wedding flowers are pale!
Ye deem the human heart endures
No deeper, bitterer grief than yours.

Yet there are pangs of keener woe,

Of which the sufferers never speak,

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