231 Pisa's patron saint hath hallowed to himself the joyful day, Never on the thronged Rialto showed the Carnival more gay. Suddenly the bell beneath us broke the vision with its chime; "Signors," quoth our gray attendant, "it is almost vesper time"; Vulgar life resumed its empire, -down we dropt from the sublime. Here and there a friar passed us, as we paced the silent streets, And a cardinal's rumbling carriage roused the sleepers from the seats. ON A BUST OF DANTE. SEE, from this counterfeit of him Whom Arno shall remember long, How stern of lineament, how grim The father was of Tuscan song. There but the burning sense of wrong, Perpetual care and scorn abide; Small friendship for the lordly throng; Distrust of all the world beside. Faithful if this wan image be, A lover in that anchorite? came Of beauty, veiled with heavenly light, In circles of eternal flame? The lips, as Cuma's cavern close, The cheeks, with fast and sorrow thin, The rigid front, almost morose, But for the patient hope within, Declare a life whose course hath been Unsullied still, though still severe, Which, through the wavering days of sin, Keep itself icy-chaste and clear. Not wholly such his haggard look When wandering once, forlorn he strayed, With no companion save his book, To Corvo's hushed monastic shade: Where, as the Benedictine laid His palm upon the pilgrim-guest, The single boon for which he prayed The convent's charity was rest. this rugged face That has its origin above, Peace dwells not here, The marble man of many woes. The scourge of many a guilty line. War to the last he waged with all The tyrant canker-worms of earth; He used Rome's harlot for his mirth; Would come and keep in fashion; Beneath the waves of Ocean! Two wandering angels, Sleep and Death, Quoth Sleep (whose face, though twice Was strangely like the other's, - "A busy life is mine, I trow; Would I were omnipresent! And yet my work is pleasant. "I cast my potent poppies forth, And lo! the cares that cumber "True!" answered Sleep, "but all the The moist winds breathe of crispéd while Thine office is berated, 'Tis only by the vile and weak That thou art feared and hated. "And though thy work on earth has given To all a shade of sadness; Consider every saint in heaven Remembers thee with gladness!" SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. [U. S. A.] A STILL DAY IN AUTUMN. I LOVE to wander through the woodlands hoary In the soft light of an autumnal day, When Summer gathers up her robes of glory, And like a dream of beauty glides away. How through each loved, familiar path she lingers, Serenely smiling through the golden mist, leaves and flowers His shout and whistle broke the air, As cheerily he plied His garden-spade, or drove his share Along the hillock's side. He marked the fire-storm's blazing flood He marked the rapid whirlwind shoot, His gaunt hound yelled, his rifle flashed, His fangs, with dying howl; And, with its moaning ery, Humble the lot, yet his the race, When Liberty sent forth her cry, Who thronged in conflict's deadliest place, To fight, to bleed, -to die! Who cumbered Bunker's height of red, By hope through weary years were led, And witnessed Yorktown's sun Blaze on a nation's banner spread, A nation's freedom won. CHRISTOPHER P. CRANCH. [U. S. A ] KNOWING. THOUGHT is deeper than all speech, We are spirits clad in veils; To remove the shadowy screen. Heart to heart was never known, Mind with mind did never meet; |