"Why, Phoebe, child, what have you done?
The bread is baked as black as my shoe!"

And Phoebe started, and blushed for shame,
Took up her knitting and dropped it down;
And when her aunt said, "What ails you, child?"
She hastily answered, "Reuben Brown."

Ah, love! young love! it is very sweet,
In field, or hamlet, or crowded mart;
But it burns with the brightest, purest flame
In the hidden depths of a young maid's heart.




THE LOST HEART.

One golden summer day,
Along the forest-way,
Young Colin passed with blithesome steps alert.

His locks with careless grace
Rimmed round his handsome face
And drifted outward on the airy surge.

So blithe of heart was he,
He hummed a melody,
And all the birds were hushed to hear him sing.