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"Thank goodness, here comes one of us, with whom one can talk!" said the little Ball, and looked at the gilt Top. "I am really morocco, worked by maiden's hands, and have a Spanish cork within me; but no one would think it to look at me. I was very nearly marrying a swallow, but I fell into the gutter on the roof, and have lain there full five years, and become quite wet through. You may believe me; that's a long time for a young girl."

But the Top said nothing. He thought of his old love; and the more he heard, the clearer it became to him that this was she.

Then came the servant girl, and wanted to turn out the dust box.

"Aha! there's a gilt Top!" she cried.

And so the Top was brought again to notice and honor, but nothing was heard of the little Ball. And the Top spoke no more of his old love; for that dies away when the beloved object has lain for five years in a gutter and got wet through; yes, one does not know her again when he meets her in the dust box.

ANEURIN.

ANEURIN, a famous Welsh bard of the sixth century. Of his epic and songs we possess the "Godolin," which is believed to be a description of one of the last great battles of the native Britons with the Saxon invaders. The poem as it has come down to us contains nearly 1000 lines, but it is not complete and lacks unity. The sense is obscure, and several passages are capable of various interpretations.

THE GIANT GWRVELING FALLS AT LAST.

(The bard tells the story of Gwrveling's revelry, impulsive bravery, and final slaughter of the foe before yielding to their prowess.)

LIGHT of lights — the sun,

Leader of the day,

First to rise and run

His appointed way,

Crowned with many a ray,
Seeks the British sky;
Sees the flight's dismay,

Sees the Britons fly.

The horn in Eiddin's hall

Had sparkled with the wine,

And thither, at a call

To drink and be divine,

He went, to share the feast
Of reapers, wine and mead.
He drank, and so increased
His daring for wild deed.
The reapers sang of war
That lifts its shining wings,
Its shining wings of fire,
Its shields that flutter far,
The bards, too, sang of war,
Of plumed and crested war;
The song rose ever higher.

Not a shield
Escapes the shock,

To the field

They fiercely flock,

There to fall.

But of all

Who struck on giant Gwrveling,
Whom he would he struck again,
All he struck in grave were lain,
Ere the bearers came to bring
To his grave stout Gwrveling.

COMMENCEMENT OF THE GODODIN.

Lo, the youth, in mind a man,
Daring in the battle's van!
See the splendid warrior's speed
On his fleet and thick-maned steed,
As his buckler, beaming wide,
Decks the courser's slender side,
With his steel of spotless mould,
Ermined vest and spurs of gold.
Think not, youth, that e'er from me
Hate or spleen shall flow to thee:
Nobler meed thy virtues claim,
Eulogy and tuneful fame.

Ah! much sooner comes thy bier
Than thy nuptial feast, I fear:
Ere thou mak'st the foeman bleed
Ravens on thy corse shall feed.
Owain, lov'd companion, friend,
To birds a prey is this thy end?
Tell me, steed, on what sad plain
Thy ill-fated lord was slain.

MICHEL ANGELO.

ANGELO MICHEL, also known as MICHELAGNOLO BUONARROTI, the eminent Italian sculptor, painter, architect, and poet; born at Caprese, March 6, 1475; died at Rome, February 18, 1564. Of world-wide and lasting renown as an artist and architect, his claim to literary fame rests upon his sonnets and letters. The best edition of his "Poems" was published at Florence, 1863; an English translation of the sonnets by Symonds, London, 1892. A volume of "Letters was published at Florence, 1865.

SONNETS OF MICHEL ANGELO.

(Translated by J. A. Symonds.)

THE GARLAND AND THE GIRDLE.

WHAT joy hath yon glad wreath of flowers that is
Around her golden hair so deftly twined,
Each blossom pressing forward from behind,
As though to be the first her brows to kiss!
The livelong day her dress hath perfect bliss,
That now reveals her breast, now seems to bind;
And that fair woven net of gold refined
Rests on her cheek and throat in happiness.
Yet still more blissful seems to me the band
Gilt at the tips, so sweetly doth it ring
And clasp the bosom that it serves to lace;

Yea! and the belt to such as understand,

Bound round her waist, saith-"Here I'd ever cling!"
What would my arm do in that girdle's place?

THE TRANSFIGURATION OF BEAUTY.

(A Dialogue with Love.)

NAY! prithee tell me, Love! when I behold
My Lady, do mine eyes her beauty see
In truth, or dwells that loveliness in me
Which multiplies her grace a thousandfold?

Thou needs must know, for thou with her of old
Comest to stir my soul's tranquillity;

Yet would I not seek one sigh less, or be
By loss of that loved flame more simply cold.
"The beauty thou discernest is all hers;
But grows in radiance as it soars on high
Through mortal eyes unto the soul above:
"T is there transfigured, for the soul confers,
On what she holds, her own divinity:
And this transfigured beauty wins thy love."

SONNETS TO VITTORIA.

Now on the one foot, on the other now,
'Twixt vice and virtue balancing below,
Wearied and anxious in my troubled mind,
Seeking where'er I may salvation find.

Like one to whom the stars by clouds are crossed:
Who, turn which way he will, errs, and is lost.
Therefore take thou my heart's unwritten page,
And write thou on it what is wanted there;
And hold before it, in life's daily stage,
The line of action which it craves in prayer.
So that, amid the errors of my youth,
My own shortcomings may not hide the truth:
If humble sinners lower in heaven stood,
Than the proud doers of superfluous good.

Not all unworthy of the boundless grace
Which thou, most noble lady, hast bestowed,
I fain at first would pay the debt I owed,
And some small gift for thy acceptance place.
But soon I felt, 't is not alone desire
That opes the way to reach an aim so high;
My rash pretensions their success deny,
And I grow wise while failing to aspire.
And well I see how false it were to think
That any work, faded and frail, of mine,
Could emulate the perfect grace of thine.
Genius and art and daring backward shrink;
A thousand works from mortals like to me
Can ne'er repay what Heaven has given thee!

When godlike art has, with superior thought,
The limbs and motions in idea conceived,
A simple form, in humble clay achieved,