"Where and what

Like you we murmur, are they?"

And are they happy? Do they love us yet? Do their plumes ever take our earthward way?

Or is our cell indeed an oubliette: Wherein we lie forgotten in our night, While they in effortless effulgence float From marvel unto marvel, with the light Of their pure will for steed and chariotPer gl' Occh' almeno non v'è Claüsura.

We can but dream of them as once they

were,

Our visions are but symbols of their change;

White robes, steed, chariot, pinions, golden hair,

Are but wild phantoms which our visual range

Compounds from mortal loveliness and power,

Whereunder gleams the essence we adore; We can but ransack earth their forms to dower

With all we see, and puny is our storePer gl' Occh' almeno non v'è Claüsura.

Who from its nest-who never knew a birdCould dream of eagle's glance or swallow's flight,

Or how the nightingale with songs unheard Doth sanctify the silence of the night? Who from a seed could hint the towering pine,

Or guess the pendant fruitage of the palm,

The wine-stored clusters of the stooping vine,

The blushing rose's lips and mystic balm ?

Per gl' Occh' almeno non v'è Claüsura.

Yet not, monastic Comrade, not in vain, We beat with baffled souls at prison bars; Thou yearning for thy home in yonder plain,

We tracking our lost treasure through the stars;

'Tis sweet to cheat ourselves a little while, And something gained it is for us and

thee,

An hour or two of longing to beguile
In blindly murmuring,

We see,

we

Per gl' Occh' almeno non v'è Clausura.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

BEFORE SEDAN

Here, in this leafy place
Quiet he lies,

Cold, with his sightless face
Turned to the skies:

'Tis but another dead;
All you can say is said.

Carry his body hence,-
Kings must have slaves;
Kings climb to eminence
Over men's graves:

So this man's eye is dim;—
Throw the earth over him.

What was the white you touched

There, at his side?

Paper his hand had clutched

Tight ere he died;—

Message or wish, may be ;—

Smooth the folds out and see.

Hardly the worst of us

Here could have smiled!

Only the tremulous

Words of a child ;

Prattle, that has for stops
Just a few ruddy drops.

Look! She is sad to miss,

Morning and night,

His-her dead father's-kiss ;

Tries to be bright,

Good to mamma, and sweet.

Ah, if beside the dead

Slumbered the pain!

Ah, if the hearts that bled
Slept with the slain !

If the grief died ;-But no ;—
Death will not have it so.

A FANCY FROM FONTENELLE

De Mémoires de Roses on n'a point vu
Mourir le Jardinier."

The Rose in the garden slipped her bud, And she laughed in the pride of her youthful blood,

As she thought of the Gardener standing

by

'He is old-so old! And he soon must

The full Rose waxed in the warm June air, And she spread and spread till her heart lay bare;

And she laughed once more as she heard his tread

"He is older now! He will soon be dead!"

But the breeze of the morning blew, and found

That the leaves of the blown Rose strewed the ground;

And he came at noon, that Gardener old, And he raked them softly under the mould.

And I wove the thing to a random rhyme, For the Rose is Beauty, the Gardener, Time.

Si vieillesse pouvait !"

MONSIEUR VIEUXBOIS. BABETTE. M. VIEUXBOIS (turning querulously). Day of my life! Where can she get? Babette! I say! Babette !-Babette !

BABETTE (entering hurriedly).

Coming M'sieu'! If M'sieu' speaks
So loud, he won't be well for weeks!