therefore, it would seem probable that the stellar line owes its source to the presence of iron in those stars that show it; but, with our present knowledge it would be premature to adopt this supposition without more conclusive evidence. Although twenty-eight stars possess this line in common, their other lines are not coincident, for out of the twelve not more than two or three give spectra whose lines all agree. This proves that the source of the F line is independent of that of the other lines, and hence that, although these bodies possess one common component, they are not all of exactly similar nature. Our present ignorance as to the nature of this and the less diffused components of the stellar suns detracts nothing from the importance and little from the interest of these investigations; for in these days of insatiable research, to establish the existence of one element in one star—as has been done in the case of sodium in Betelgeux—is to tread the lowest step of a ladder whose topmost round will not be left unattained till the constitution of every spectrum-yielding star is more or less certainly known.
GIFTS.
I.
I gave my love a bracelet on her natal day—
The light was dancing on the lea—
Its sparkling gems shook lustre when ’twas worn,
From beds of filagree;
And seem’d to laugh and speak, upon her arm,
Like children on their pillows white and warm.
“This for thy hand,” I said; “soon mine”—
With that she ’gan the amulet untwine;
And cried, “Thou buyest me, like a slave!”—
Then stopping, red, a look of love she gave.
II.
In the sweet haying-time, I made a crown of flowers—
The light was dancing on the lea—
I stole bright blossoms from the butterfly
And honey-seeking bee.
Holding my wreath above her shining head,
“Soon thou art mine;—why art thou sad?” I said.
“The Past was happy,” she replied;
“The Future is a dangerous path, untried;”—
Then leant her brow upon my breast,
And if she fear’d, soon charm’d her fear to rest.
III.
Next morn, when village bells were pealing forth our joy—
The light was dancing on the lea—
We fled the rustic mirth of happy friends,
For happier secrecy;
And neath the shadows of a summer wood
We sipped the cup of Earth’s beatitude.
“This ring is all my gift to-day.”
She, sitting closer, whispered, “Nay, love, nay,
Thou givest thyself—a gift divine.
This day I feel thy heart, thought, life, are mine!”
