In all the tree tops

Hearest thou

Hardly a breath;

The birds are asleep in the trees.

Wait soon like these

Thou too shalt rest.

Goethe,

CHARLES SUMNER.

GARLANDS upon his grave,

And flowers upon his hearse, And to the tender heart and brave, The tribute of this verse.

His was the troubled life,

The conflict and the pain,

The grief, the bitterness of strife,
The honour without stain.

Like Winkelried, he took

Into his manly breast

The sheaf of hostile spears, and broke

A path for the oppressed;

Then from the fatal field
Upon a nation's heart

Borne like a warrior on his shield !

So should the brave depart.

Death takes us by surprise, And stays our hurrying feet; The great design unfinished lies, Our lives are incomplete.

But in the dark unknown Perfect their circles seem, Even as a bridge's arch of stone Is rounded by the stream.

Alike are life and death,

When life in death survives,

And the uninterrupted breath
Inspires a thousand lives.

Were a star quenched on high,

For ages would its light,

Still travelling downward from the sky,

Shine on our mortal sight.

So when a great man dies,

For years beyond our ken,

The light he leaves behind him lies

Upon the paths of men,

VOX POPULI.

WHEN Marzaran, the magician,
Journeyed westward through Cathay,
Nothing heard he but the praises
Of Badoura on his way.

But the lessening rumour ended
When he came to Khaledan;
There the folks were talking only
Of Prince Camaralzaman.

So it happens with the poets,
Every province hath its own;
Camaralzaman is famous

Where Badoura is unknown.

A ROSARY OF SONNETS.

THE OLD BRIDGE AT FLORENCE.

TADDEO GADDI built me. I am old;

Five centuries old. I plant my foot of stone

Upon the Arno, as St. Michael's own

Was planted on the dragon. Fold by fold

Beneath me, as it struggles, I behold

Its glistening scales. Twice hath it overthrown

My kindred and companions. Me alone

It moveth not, but is by me controlled.
I can remember when the Medici

Were driven from Florence; longer still ago
The final wars of Ghibelline and Guelf.
Florence adorns me with her jewelry;
And when I think that Michael Angelo
Hath leaned on me, I glory in myself.

NATURE.

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,
Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
Half willing, half reluctant to be led,
And leave his broken playthings on the floor,
Still gazing at them through the open door,
Nor wholly reassured and comforted

By promises of others in their stead,

Which, though more splendid, may not please him more.

So Nature deals with us, and takes away

Our playthings one by one, and by the hand

Leads us to rest so gently, that we go

Scarce knowing if we wished to go or stay,

Being too full of sleep to understand

How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

THE GRAVE OF WASHINGTON IRVING.

HERE lies the gentle humourist, who died
In the bright Indian Summer of his fame!
A simple stone, with but a date and name,
Marks his secluded resting place beside
The river that he loved and glorified.

Here in the autumn of his days he came,
But the dry leaves of life were all aflame
With tints that brightened and were multiplied.
How sweet a life was his; how sweet a death!
Living, to wing with mirth the weary hours,
Or with romantic tales the heart to cheer;
Dying, to leave a memory like the breath

Of summers full of sunshine and of showers,
A grief and gladness in the atmosphere.

ELIOT'S OAK.

THOU ancient oak! whose myriad leaves are loud With sounds of unintelligible speech,

Sounds as of surges on a shingly beach, Or multitudinous murmurs of a crowd; With some mysterious gift of tongues endowed, Thou speakest a different dialect to each;