Mary—­(Mary I will call you—­
  ’Tis not the old-time name)
Sainted Mary—­blue-eyed Mary—­
  Are you in heaven the same? 
Are your eyes as bright and beautiful,
  Your cheeks as full of glow,
As when the school-boy kissed you, May,
  Twenty years ago?

How we swung upon the grape-vine
  Down by the Genesee;
  And I caught the speckled trout for you,
    While you gathered flowers for me: 
  How we rambled o’er the meadows
    With brows and cheeks aglow,
  And hearts like God’s own angels—­
    Twenty years ago.

[Illustration:  HOW, WE SWUNG UPON THE GRAPE-VINE DOWN BY THE GENESEE, AND I CAUGHT THE SPECKLED TROUT FOR YOU, WHILE YOU GATHERED FLOWERS FOR ME]

How our young hearts grew together
  Until they beat as one;
Distrust it could not enter;
  Cares and fears were none. 
All my love was yours, dear Mary,
  ’Twas boyish love, I know;
But I ne’er have loved as then I loved—­
  Twenty years ago.

How we pictured out the future—­
  The golden coming years,
And saw no cloud in all our sky,
  No gloomy mist of tears;
But ah—­how vain are human hopes! 
  The angels came—­and O—­
They bore my darling up to heaven—­
  Twenty years ago.

I will not tell—­I cannot tell—­
  What anguish wrung my soul;
But a silent grief is on my heart
  Though the years so swiftly roll;
And I cannot shake it off, May,
  This lingering sense of woe,
Though I try to drown the memory
  Of twenty years ago.

I am fighting life’s stern battle, May,
  With all my might and main;
But a seat by you and mother there
  Is the dearest prize to gain;
And I know you both are near me,
  Whatever winds may blow,
For I feel your spirits cheer me
  Like twenty years ago.

BETZKO

A HUNGARIAN LEGEND

Stibor had led in many a fight,
  And broken a score of swords
In furious frays and bloody raids
  Against the Turkish hordes.

And Sigismund, the Polish king,
  Who joined the Magyar bands,
Bestowed upon the valiant knight
  A broad estate of lands.

Once when the wars were o’er, the knight
  Was holding wassail high,
And the valiant men that followed him
  Were at the revelry.

Betzko, his Jester, pleased him so
  He vowed it his the task
To do whatever in human power
  His witty Fool might ask.

“Build on yon cliff,” the Jester cried,
  In drunken jollity,
“A mighty castle high and wide,
  And name it after me.”

“Ah, verily a Jester’s prayer,”
  Exclaimed the knightly crew,
“To ask of such a noble lord
  What you know he cannot do.”

“Who says I cannot,” Stibor cried,
  “Do whatsoe’er I will? 
Within one year a castle shall stand
  On yonder rocky hill—­