Never again shall he,
The dreamer, the child of song,
Gliding at eve along
The still lake's margent, see
As he dips his shallop's oars
Close by the mirrored shores,
Her shadowy form of grace
Slip from its hiding place
In the gloom of sheltering ferns
Into an open space
Where the moon's white radiance burns ;
Nor, as a fawn that turns
Its delicate head to sniff
An instant longer the scent
With the sweet wood-zephyrs blent,
Ere it bounds away like a whiff
Of wind-blown mist thro' the trees,
Will she wait for him, while the breeze
Plays with the glistening strands
Of her hair, as she curves her hands
Over her questioning eyes,
Love-lit with a shy surprise.

Never again with lute
And love-song sweetly sung,
Will he lure her from among
The forest cloisters mute;
Nor from the shadowy shore,
With songs, will he row her o'er

The cool, moon-whitened calm
Unto the sheltered coves
O'erhung by blossoming groves
Of the shell-girt isles of balm :
Not evermore again
Will she visit the world of men ;
Nor is there any stave
Can call her back from the grave,
Nor ever a madrigal
Can pass her beneath the pall
Unto the pain and strife
Which living men call Life!

Yet, in his dreams and songs,
She is not dead to him :
Not all in vain he longs
For her presence in the dim
Green glooms of the ancient wood ;
For Heaven has found it good
To turn forever the sting
Of sorrow from hearts that sing.
And all day long he treads
The forest's whispering aisles ;
And the checkered sunlight sheds
Its glow o’er a face that smiles-
Smiles as he softly strays
Under the leafy haze-
Whispering, “She is here.
Death could not wound my dear.
Listen ! you say a thrush
With wild song breaks the hush ;
I say it is she—my love-
Singing in yonder grove.
'Tis she ! I say; for she said,
One night when her fair, bright head
Lay on my breast, My own,
If ever thou’rt left alone,
Think not that thy love is dead,
But look till thou find'st the red
Wild rose, and say “ 'Tis her cheek.”
Then kiss it close, and seek-
Where the clear dew never dries-
Blue violets for mine eyes ;
Then, would'st thou kiss my lips,
The bee will lead where he sips ;
Sapphires will clasp my throat
Where water-lilies float ;
My hands will be the air
Caressing thy forehead fair,
And oft, when the rain-drops beat
The leaves, thou wilt hear my feet
Leading the murmuring shower
Away from thy sylvan bower.'
Thus did she speak, and then
Faded from earthly ken
Out of the arms that clasped
Her form, and my hands but grasped

This robe upon either side.
My arms were locked on the breast
That her golden hair had prest,
And thus did I lose my bride!”

Still through the haunted aisles
Of the wood, and at its edge
Where the ripples stir the sedge,
This dreamer walks, and smiles
On the violet and the rose,
And the lily's calm repose :
And you who have heard his song,
And the fantasies which throng
Its burden, may know_with me
That the maiden was Purity,
And the lover a sullied soul
That saw, in the scented flowers,
Emblems of hallowed hours,
Of the Innocence that stole
Unto its God when Sin-
The Dark Guest-entered in !

"A braggart's threat, for a brave man's scorning!”

And Hugo laughed at his rival's ire,
But couriers twain, on the bridal morning,

To his castle gate came with tidings dire.

The first a-faint and with armor riven :

“In peril sore have I left thy bride,False Rolf waylaid us. For love and Heaven!

Sir Hugo, quick to the rescue ride!”

Stout Hugo muttered a word unholy ;

He sprang to horse and he flashed his brand, But a hand was laid on his bridle slowly,

And a herald spoke : “By the king's command

“This to Picardy's trusty warder :

France calls first for his loyal sword, The Flemish spears are across the border,

And all is lost if they win the ford.”

Sir Hugo paused, and his face was ashen,

His white lips trembled in silent prayerGod's pity soften the spirit's passion

When the crucifixion of Love is there!

What need to tell of the message spoken?

Of the hand that shook as he poised his lance ? And the look that told of his brave heart broken,

As he bade them follow, “For God and France !”

On Cambray's field next morn they found him,

Mid a mighty swath of foemen dead;
Her snow-white scarf he had bound around him

With his loyal blood was baptizéd red.

It is all writ down in the book of Glory,

On crimson pages of blood and strife, With scanty thought for the simple story

Of duty dearer than love or life.

Only a note obscure, appended

By warrior scribe or monk perchance, Saith : "The good knight's ladye was sore offended

That he would not die for her but France.”

Did the ladye live to lament her lover?

Or did roystering Rolf prove a better mate ? I have searched the records over and over,

But nought discover to tell her fate.

And I read the moral.—A brave endeavor

To do thy duty, whate'er its worth, Is better than life with love forever

And love is the sweetest thing on earth.

Y the time this paper out, and the hours are "numbered and appears, I shall have imputed," and the days go by; and when been talking for twelve the last of these finds us, we have been a

months ; and it is long time dying, and what else? The thought I should take my leave in a very length is something, if we reach formal and seasonable manner. Vale- that hour of separation undishonored ; dictory eloquence is rare. Even death- ' and to have lived at all is doubtless (in bed sayings have not often hit the mark the soldierly expression) to have served. of the occasion ; and perhaps there are There is a tale in Tacitus of how the but three that may be profitably cited. veterans mutinied in the German wilderCharles Second, wit and sceptic, a man ness ; of how they mobbed Germanicus, whose life had been one long lesson in clamoring to go home; and of how, seizhuman incredulity, an easy-going com- ing their general's hand, these old, warrade, a manoeuvring king-remembered worn exiles passed his finger along their and embodied all his wit and scepticism toothless gums. Sunt lacrymo rerum : along with more than his usual good this was the most eloquent of the songs humor in the famous “I am afraid, gen- of Simeon. And when a man has lived tlemen, I am an unconscionable time to a fair age, he bears his marks of sera-dying.” Marcus Aurelius in that last vice. He

may have never been remarked passage did not forget that he was upon the breach at the head of the army; Cæsar : “ Vale vobis dico, vos precedens." at least he shall have lost his teeth on And there is yet another passing-word: the camp bread. “Father, forgive them, for they know The idealism of serious people in this not what they do."

age of ours is of a noble character. It never seems to them that they have

served enough ; they have a fine impaI.

tience of their virtues. It were perhaps

more modest to be singly thankful that The attitude and the words of Charles we are no worse. It is not only our Second are what best become humanity. enemies, those desperate characters-it An unconscionable time a-dying—there is we ourselves who know not what we is the picture ("I am afraid, gentlemen") do ;—thence springs the glimmering of your life and of mine. The sands run hope that perhaps we do better than we