CORN. 
. . Riches. 
Cupid, in a pet one day, 
Pouting with a dainty rage, 
Flung his downy darts away, 
Angry at our hardened age. 
Tears were in his azure eyes;— 
“Once,” he cried, “my aim was true; 
Once the simple, gay, and wise 
Felt my power where’er I flew! 
Hearts of stone! no shaft divine, 
Slings henceforth my weapon he! 
Give me, wealth, thy ingots fine,— 
These ensure my victory!” 
F. S. O. 
RUTH. 
She stood breast-high amid the corn, 
Clasped by the golden light of morn, 
Like the sweetheart of the sun, 
Who many a glowing kiss had won. 
Round her eyes her tresses fell; 
Which were blackest none could tell; 
But long lashes veiled a light 
That had else been all too bright: 
And her hat, with shady brim, 
Made her tressy forehead dim. 
Thus she stood amid the stooks, 
Praising God with her sweet looks. 
“Sure,” I said—“Heaven did not mean, 
Where I reap thou should’stbut glean; 
Lay thy sheaf adown, and come 
Share my harvest and my home.” 
Hood. 
