THE QUESTION.

A PLEASANT drive in the month of May

To a villa perched upon a hill,

In the purple light of the dying day

When all save the rumbling wheels is still.

A hostess fair on the threshold stands,

A woman scarce from girlhood past,

With a smiling face and greeting hands,

And a welcome that binds the list'ner fast.

A quiet chat in the moonlight pale,

A song that over the night-air floats, -

An echoing song from a nightingale

That sends the refrain of my lady's notes.

A question asked, and a low reply, -

A thrill of joy that floods the heart.

A violet plucked - a smother'd sigh -

A fervid vow - and we two must part.

This was a scene - long years ago

In a quiet nook of Italian soil;

And if she be true? ah, could I but know

As I waste to-night the midnight oil.