All coyly went the sweet babe-bride,
Yet oft with simple grace,

She raised, soft-stepping by his side,
Her dark eyes to his face.

And playfellows who loved her well
Crowns of white roses bore,
And lived in after years to tell

The infant bridal o'er.

Then words of import strange and deep
The hoary prelate said,

And some had turned away to weep,
And many bowed the head.

Their steady gaze those children meek
Upon the old man bent,

As earnestly they seemed to seek

The solemn word's intent.

Calm in the blest simplicity

That never woke to doubt;

Calm in the holy purity

Whose presence bars shame out!

Then turned they from each troubled brow,

And many a downcast eye,

And gazed upon each other now

In wondering sympathy;

And nestled close, with looks of love,

Upon the altar's stone;

Such ties as Seraphs bind above

These little ones might own.

And sweetly was the babe-bride's cheek

Against the fair boy pressed,

All reverent, yet so fond and meek,
As kneeling to be blest.

Then smiled they on their grand array
And went forth hand in hand,
Well pleased to keep high holiday

Amid that gorgeous band.
Alas! for those that early wed
With such prophetic gloom,
For sadly fell on each young head
The shadow of the tomb.

Scarce had the blossoms died away
Of the rose-wreaths they wore.
When to her mouldering ancestry
The little bride they bore.

Her marriage garlands o'er her bier,
Bedewed with tears, were cast;
And still she smiled as though no fear
O'erclouded her at last.

A life as short, and darker doon,
The gentle boy befel:

He slept not in his father's tomb,
For him was heard no knell !
One stifling pang amid his sleep
And the dark vale was passed!

He woke with those who've ceased to weep,
Whose sun is ne'er o'ercast.

A garland floats around the throne,
Entwined by angel hands,

Of such fair earth-buds, newly blown,

Culled from a thousand lands,

A melody most pure and sweet
Unceasingly they sing,

And blossoms o'er the mercy-seat,

The loved babe-angels fling!

I have now to introduce another fair artist into the female gallery of which I am so proud; an artist, whose works seem to me to bear the same relation to sculpture that those of Mrs. Acton Tindal do to painting. The poetry of Miss Day is statuesque in its dignity, in its purity, in its repose. Purity is perhaps the distinguishing quality of this fine writer, pervading the conception, the thoughts, and the diction. But she must speak for herself. As "The Infant Bridal" might form a sketch for an historical picture, so "Charlotte Corday" is a model, standing ready to be chiselled in Parian stone.

Stately and beautiful and chaste,

Forth went the dauntless maid,
Her blood to yield, her youth to waste,
That carnage might be stayed.

This solemn purpose filled her soul,

There was no room for fear,

She heard the cry of vengeance roll

Prophetic on her ear.

She thought to stem the course of crime

By one appalling deed,

She knew to perish in her prime

Alone would be her meed.

No tremor shook her woman's breast,

No terror blanched her brow,

She spoke, she smiled, she took her rest,

And hidden held her vow.

She mused upon her country's wrong,

Upon the tyrant's guilt,

Her gettled purpose grew more strong
As blood was freshly spilt:

What though the fair smooth hand were slight !—
It grasped the sharpened steel;
A triumph flashed before her sight
The death that it should deal.

She sought her victim in his den-
The tiger in his lair;

And though she found him feeble then,
There was no thought to spare.
Fast through his dying guilty heart,
That pity yet withstood,

She made her gleaming weapon dart,
And stained her soul with blood.

She bore the buffets and the jeers
Of an infuriate crowd;

She asked no grace, she showed no fear,
She owned her act aloud.

She only quailed when woman's cries
Bewailed the monster's fate,
Her lips betrayed her soul's surprise
That fiends gained aught but hate.

She justified her deed of blood
In stern, exalted phrase,

As in the judgment-hall she stood
With calm, intrepid gaze.

And when she heard her awful doom,
Before the morn to die,

Her cheek assumed a brighter bloom,
And triumph lit her eye.

She marked a painter's earnest gaze,
She raised to him her face,
That he for men in other days
Her raptured mien might trace.
Some bold heroic words she penned
To him her life who gave,
And as approached her fearful end,
Her soul grew yet more brave.

She wore the bonds, the robe of red,
As martyrs wear their crown;
She begged no mercy on her head,
She called no curses down;
It was enough that she fulfilled

The work that was decreed;
It was enough a voice was stilled

That doomed the just to bleed.

So beautiful, so filled with life,
So doomed, she passed along;
Above the sense, the sound of strife,
Alone in the vast throng.

Some with mute reverence lowly bowed,
As thus the victim went;

And some outpouring hatred loud,
The air with curses rent.

Without one tint of fresh youth paled,
Without one quivering breath,
Without one step that weakly failed,
That maiden sped to death;
And with her lips yet glowing red,
And bright her beaming eyes,

To the sharp axe she bowed her head,
And closed her sacrifice.

Yet two more female figures, embodying a stern lesson.

THE TWO MAUDES.

Broidered robe, bespangled vest,
Raiment for a palace guest,

Wears proud Maude to-night;
And her haughty smile is gay,
As shines forth that rich array
In the mirror bright.

Now, with triumph on her cheek,
And with looks that conquest speak,
See her pass along;
Listen to the murmured praise,
Mark the fixed admiring gaze
Of the courtly throng!

Now she joins the stately dance,
And her tutored grace enchants,
Faultless is her mien ;
And of all the lovely crowd
She can hear it whispered loud
She to-night is queen.

And of all the vestments there
Hers is richest and most rare,
Wondrous is its cost;
With apparel of less pride,
Where so many shone beside
She had triumph lost.

Therefore 't was she gave command,
When the courtly ball was planned,
That her robe should be,
Though the time for toil was brief,
With the choicest flower and leaf

Rich in broidery.

Broidered robe, bespangled vest,
Raiment for a palace guest,

Maude the poor hath wrought;
She who as a May-day queen
Danced upon the village-green,
Of gay Nature taught.

Then the sunshine, breeze and shower
Played with her as with a flower;
Ruddy bloom had she;
As a balmy blushing morn,
When the rose blows, and the thorn,
She was sweet to see.

Now with pallor on her cheek,
And with looks that sadness speak,
See her languid rise;
Listen to the harsh command,
See her faint and trembling stand,
Whilst her task she plies.

Thronging to her spirit come
Memories of village home,

Bee and flower and bird,

Ruddy beam of early day,

White fleeced lambs, in sportive play,

Low of dappled herd;

Breezy breath of heath-crossed hill,
Silvery sound of trickling rill,

Bank where violets grow;

And her heart is throbbing fast,
With these pictures of the past,
But no tears may flow.

Fevered is her low-bent brow,
Wasted are her young limbs now,
Joy hath lost its home;

Short the respite for relief,

Stolen slumbers far too brief
For soft dreams to come.

Tainted is the air she breathes,
Perfumeless the gaud she wreathes,
Garland false and cold.

And the hearts around her seem
As its flowers of mimic beam,

They no balm unfold.