Is life's w

Till the

Falls crushed

Of pove

Then, late at night, when by his fire
The traveller sits,

Watching the flame grow brighter, higher,
The sweet song flits,

By snatches, through his weary brain,
To help him rest:

When next he goes that road again,
An empty nest

On leafless bough will make him sigh:
"Ah me! last spring,

Just here I heard, in passing by,
That rare bird sing."

But while he sighs, remembering How sweet the song,

The little bird, on tireless wing,
Is borne along

In other air; and other men,
With weary feet,

On other roads, the simple strain
Are finding sweet.

The birds must know. Who wisely sings
Will sing as they.

The common air has generous wings:
Songs make their way.

MARCH.

Beneath the sheltering walls the thin snow clings;
Dead winter's skeleton, left bleaching, white,
Disjointed, crumbling, on the friendly fields.
The inky pools surrender tardily

At noon, to patient herds, a frosty drink
From jagged rims of ice; a subtle red

Of life is kindling every twig and stalk

Of lowly meadow growths; the willows weep,
Their stems in furry white; the pines grow gray
A little, in the biting wind; mid-day
Brings tiny burrowed creatures, peeping out
Alert for sun. Ah, March! We know thou art
Kind-hearted, spite of ugly looks and threats,
And, out of sight, art nursing April's violets!

Reminds thee; then in subtle mockery
Thou smilest at the window where I wait,
Who bade thee ride for life. In empty state
My days go on, while false hours prophesy
Thy quick return; at last, in sad despair,
I cease to bid thee, leave thee free as air,
When lo! thou stand'st before me glad and fleet,
And lay'st undreamed-of treasures at my feet.
Ah, messenger! thy royal blood to buy,
I am too poor. Thou art the king, not I.

OCTOBER.

O suns and skies and clouds of June, And flowers of June together,

Ye cannot rival for one hour

October's bright blue weather;

When loud the bumblebee makes haste,
Belated, thriftless vagrant,
And golden-rod is dying fast,

And lanes with grapes are fragrant;

When gentians roll their fringes tight,
To save them for the morning,
And chestnuts fall from satin burrs
Without a sound of warning;

When on the ground red apples lie
In piles, like jewels shining,
And redder still on old stone walls
Are leaves of woodbine twining;

When all the lovely way-side things Their white-winged seeds are sowing, And in the fields, still green and fair, Late after-maths are growing;

When springs run low, and on the brooks, In idle golden freighting,

Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush Of woods, for winter waiting;

When comrades seek sweet country haunts,
By twos and twos together,

And count like misers, hour by hour,
October's bright blue weather.

O suns and skies and flowers of June,

Count all your boasts together, Love loveth best of all the year

October's bright blue weather.

Charles Stuart Calverley.

Comic poet, hymn writer, and translator, Calverley (born 1831) has published under the initials "C. 8. C.," in London, "Verses and Translations," "Translations into English and Latin," and "Fly Leaves" (1872), rë published in New York. As a writer of vers de société, he differs both from Praed and Holmes, and there is a decidedly original vein in his productions.

LINES SUGGESTED BY THE FOURTEENTH
FEBRUARY.

Ere the morn the East has crimsoned,
When the stars are twinkling there
(As they did in Watts's Hymns,' and
Made him wonder what they we
When the forest nymphs are bead
Fern and flower with silvery
My infallible proceeding

Is to wake, and think of you

When the hunter's ringing bu

Sounds farewell to field ar And I sit before my frugal Meal of gravy-soup and When (as Gray remarks)

Owl doth to the moon And the hour suggests e' Fly my thoughts to y

May my dreams be gr Must I aye endure Rarely realized, if ev

In our wildest wo Madly Romeo loved Copperfield begr When he hadn't

But their love

Give me hope, t Ere I drain t Tell me I may Not to make Else the heart

This my bre: Hushed, men a They'll be t

1 An allusion probab tle poem for children,

"Twink How

Isabella (Craig) Knox.

Mrs. Knox first acquired distinction in literature as Miss Craig, in 1859, by gaining the £50 prize offered by the Crystal Palace Company for the best ode on the centenary celebration of the birth of Burns. She was born in 1831, in Edinburgh, and published a volume of poems in 1856.

THE BRIDES OF QUAIR.

A stillness crept about the house,
At evenfall, in noontide glare;
Upon the silent hills looked forth
The many-windowed house of Quair.

peacock on the terrace screamed; wsed on the lawn the timid hare; eat trees grew i' the avenue,

by the sheltered house of Quair.

'as still; around its brim sickened all the air;

o murmur from the streams,

flowed Leithen, Tweed, and Quair.

their wonted pace,

rt and camp repair, f good or ill,

ep the house of Quair.

vidow's weeds, -like and fair,

seek the paths

lds of Quair.

u the streams, eflected there, iden dreams veed and Quair.

et clad,
n chair-

name

› of Quair.

er side,

den hair,

plaint

ome to Quair.

ed in pine, ed of care, y sinned, Quair.

"Alas! and ere thy father died,

I had not in his heart a share; And now-may God forefend her illThy brother brings his bride to Quair!"

She came; they kissed her in the hall,

They kissed her on the winding stair; They led her to her chamber high

The fairest in the house of Quair.

""Tis fair," she said, on looking forth; "But what although 'twere bleak and bare?" She looked the love she did not speak, And broke the ancient curse of Quair.

"Where'er he dwells, where'er he goes,

His dangers and his toils I share." What need be said, she was not one Of the ill-fated brides of Quair!

Edward Robert Bulwer.Lytton.

Under the name of "Owen Meredith," Lord Lytton the younger, born in 1831, has published several volumes of verse, among them a rhymed romance (1860), entitled "Lucille." He is the only son of the first Lord Lytton, better known as Bulwer, the novelist, and inherits much of his father's talent. For about twenty years he was engaged in diplomatic service, and in 1876 was appointed Viceroy of India; a post from which he withdrew in 1880. He has written fluently and well, though there is a lack of concentration and care manifest in several of his poems. Republished in Boston, they have passed through several editions.

LEOLINE.

In the molten-golden moonlight,

In the deep grass warm and dry, We watched the fire-fly rise and swim In floating sparkles by.

All night the hearts of nightingales, Song-steeping slumberous leaves, Flowed to us in the shadow there Below the cottage eaves.

We sang our songs together

Till the stars shook in the skies. We spoke we spoke of common things, Yet the tears were in our eyes. And my hand-I know it trembled To each light, warm touch of thine; But we were friends, and only friends, My sweet friend, Leoline!

How large the white moon looked, dear!

There has not ever been,

Since those old nights, the same great light
In the moons which I have seen.
I often wonder when I think,

If you have thought so too,

And the moonlight has grown dimmer, dear, Than it used to be to you.

And sometimes, when the warm west wind
Comes faint across the sea,

It seems that you have breathed on it,
So sweet it comes to me.

And sometimes, when the long light wanes
In one deep crimson line,

I muse, " And does she watch it too,
Far off, sweet Leoline?"

And often, leaning all day long
My head upon my hands,
My heart aches for the vanished time
In the far fair foreign lands;
Thinking sadly-"Is she happy?

Has she tears for those old hours? And the cottage in the starlight?

And the songs among the flowers?"

One night we sat below the porch,
And out in that warm air
A fire-fly, like a dying star,

Fell tangled in her hair;
But I kissed him lightly off again,
And he glittered up the vine,
And died into the darkness
For the love of Leoline!

Between two songs of Petrarch

I've a purple rose-leaf pressed,

More sweet than common rose-leaves,

For it once lay in her breast.

When she gave me that, her eyes were wet;

The rose was full of dew.

The rose is withered long ago!

The page is blistered, too.

There's a blue flower in my garden,

The bee loves more than all; The bee and I, we love it both, Though it is frail and small.

She loved it, too-long, long ago;

Her love was less than mine.

Still we were friends, but only friends,

My lost love, Leoline!

Elbridge Jefferson Cutler.

AMERICAN.

Cutler (1831-1870) was a native of Holliston, Mass., and a graduate of Harvard (1853). In 1863 a volume of his poems was published in Boston. They were mostly o themes suggested by the war, and had the true Tyrtæ ring. He seems to have been unaffected by the influe of Tennyson and Browning, and the school which ' initiated. His style resembles more that of Mace of whom, however, he was by no means an imitat

A POEM FOR THE HOUR. (18€
FROM "LIBERTY AND LAW.'

O Law, fair form of Liberty! God's lig
brow,

O Liberty, the soul of Law! God's One the clear river's sparkling flood bank with green,

And one the line of stubborn roc waters in;

Friends whom we cannot think other's foe;

Twin flowers upon a single st that grow ;

O fair ideas! we write you ner's fold;

For you the sluggard's br
ard bold.

O daughter of the bl
Prophets saw!

God give us Law in

Full many a heart is pain

For those who go

come again.

And many a heart

behind,

As a thousand ten

mind.

The old men bless

bearing hig

The women in t bravely b

One threw her a

bye, my God help thee

have de

One held up t

And said, "I

and t