THE MESSAGE.

My Marjorie doth hold in her white hands

A spray of lilies plucked below the brook

Where the old ruin of a chapel stands —

A ruin tenanted by many a nook,

And all the grayness of it hid from sight

By gracious draping of the ivy green.

Sweet lilies,‘ tis your glorious fate to-night

To lie upon her breast, to send between

Her silken bodice and the heart beneath

The fragrance given you by sun and shower.

Speak subtly with your warm, sweet-scented breath

Till,‘ mid the dance and music of the hour,

She turn you love-filled eyes and glowing face,

With: “Ah, ye grew in that old trysting place!”