Crewel-Work. The border of blossoms and fruit and flow’rs Grows under the skilful hand, And butterflies flutter among the leaves, While birds of a tropic land Perch on the boughs of fantastic trees— Themselves a fantastic band. The soft blues melt into softer greys, And the grey is lost in the green, A silken thread crosses with fairy foot Its homelier rivals between, As a gay Cinderella, e’er stroke of twelve, In her jewels and beauty’s sheen. The purples and fawns and delicate pinks Are flushed by a crimson ray, And a golden streak glimmers out here and there, Like a sunbeam in wanton play E’er its statelier comrades have marched in sight To cheer the twilight away. And the lady bends over her dainty work, A dreamy smile on her face, Thinking of days buried deep in the past, While her dext’rous fingers trace Forms copied from ancient tapestry, full Of nice and whimsical grace. Thinking, perchance, of those war-like times When ladies lived in their bow’rs, Shut out from the stirring world beyond, Shut in with their music and flow’rs, Contenting themselves needle and lute Through all the languid hours : When the highest art the maiden knew Was cunningly to pourtray, In broidered figure, the chivalrous deeds Of battle or tournament gay, And border the same with some quaint device Of formal tendril and spray : When the tale of daring which sounded so sweet As it fell from her lover’s tongue, Or the touching ballad of love and death Which her little page had sung, Might repeat itself on her chamber walls Where the costly arras hung. “ Were those happier days,” the lady asks, In a pause of her pleasant dream, “ Than these modern days of excitement and haste, Cheap literature, gas, and steam ; When women may brave the world alone, And ‘ Advance’ is the thought supreme ? ” When only a passing hour, now and then, Can be snatched from the busy day To play with the crewels heaped on her lap, And indulge in phantasy ; When adventures no longer wait to be told Of crusader or mock-affray : But chase, and battle, and foreign tour Are followed by line and rule ; And the noble thought is left unsaid In the fear of ridicule, And the generous impulse sternly checked In fashion’s frigid school. “ Is it better so ?—Is it gain or loss ? ” She asks with a pensive sigh : And still the balance sways up and down, And still there is no reply ; Till at last a whisper sounds in her soul— “ We are born, and then we die. “ All things must change in this life of ours As we pass to the life supreme ; And still what is good is left behind ; And still, like a struggling beam, Good shines out to-day, if but we discern What is, not what it would seem. “ If, through the crust and varnish, we pierce To the beating heart below, We shall find the self-same spirit there As in ages long ago ; And own that even these common-place times May have the heroic to show. “ Aye, the ‘ golden year,’ as the poet sings, Is for ever at the door ; And so our part must always be To garner the precious store— To add to the treasures the past has brought, From the present, still more and more.” Emma Rhodes.