I.—The Sleeping Beautt.—Kate Kennedy's Eve.

The gentle wind that whispers in the eaves
Of this old house, wherein I write,
Is blowing, too, all softly through the leaves,
That flicker at Kate's window-sill to-night.

Her window is half-open, and the breeze
Goes on, and tosses up the veil and bow—
The knot of ribbons, lying by the glass,
Just where she flung them, now a year ago.

And, ah! list softly. On the shadowed bed,
Quietly the girl lies;
And she sleeps the sleep of a gentle flower,
Waiting till winter dies.

The wind ripples over her yellow hair—
Tenderly ripples, as would a sigh;
And the sweet, still face is lovlier e'en
Than the dream of a lover's memory.

She sleeps—and, out in the darkened street,
Man on his eager way
Is hurrying still, and the tread of his feet
Follows the changing day.

II.—'Dreaming.'—The Second Life.

Here and there,
In the College square,
She seemed to wander, a student fair;
And the dream was so vivid, she wasn't quite sure
Which was the false, or which the true—
That she was Kate, or in some strange way,
Had become a student, for ever to stay
In a musty old University.

It could not be true—
And yet there are few,
Except those ladies whom men call blue,
Who would care to wear
In the open air,
Whether they wandered in College square,
In sweet South Street—or indeed anywhere,—
A thing that resembles (tho' Profs, think't a pretty coat.)
Nothing so much as an old flannel petticoat.

III.

But, oh dear me!
Only see!
How the old maid's palfrey runs off with me.
While I am thus pratin'
I'm putting Miss Kate in
A wax at her waitin' so long till I'm done.
And that won't do; for, between me and you,
Each man that made is—
And especially ladies—
Can swear very nicely, without saying—Hades;
And I'm shocked to state
That my young friend Kate
Has a most fine temper all her own.

IV.

Across the square,
Across the' bare
Old hall, and up the worn stair.
Oh never, I ween,
Was there merrier scene,
Than that which so often these stairs have seen,
Unknown to our fathers, unknown to our brothers,
Unknown to our aunts, and unknown to our mothers,
And eke to the nearer one yet, and the dearer than all the others.