That spot-the hues Elysian

Of sky and plain

I treasure in my vision,

Florence Vane.

Thou wast lovelier than the roses In their prime;

Thy voice excelled the closes

Of sweetest rhyme;

Thy heart was a river

Without a main.

Would I had loved thee never,
Florence Vane.

But fairest, coldest wonder!
Thy glorious clay

Lieth the green sod under-
Alas the day!

And it boots not to remember Thy disdain

To quicken love's pale ember, Florence Vane.

The lilies of the valley

By young graves weep, The pansies love to dally

Where maidens sleep;

May their bloom in beauty vying Never wane,

Where thine earthly part is lying, Florence Vane!

Christopher Christian Cox.

AMERICAN.

Born in Baltimore, Md., in 1816, Cox graduated at Yale College in 1835; was admitted to practice medicine in 1838; was Brigade-surgeon of the United States in 1860, and Surgeon - general of Maryland in 1863. An outspoken upholder of the Union, he was elected Lieutenant-governor of Maryland in 1865. In 1869 he received the degree of LL.D. from Trinity College, Hartford. In 1871 he was President of the Board of Health, Washington, D. C.; and in 1879 was sent Commissioner to the World's Fair in Australia, whence he returned in impaired health. His poems have appeared mostly in the magazines, and are characterized by qualities suggestive of the affectionate nature, the tenderness, and intellectual grace, which endeared the writer to many attached friends.

ONE YEAR AGO.

What stars have faded from our sky! What hopes unfolded but to die!

What dreams so fondly pondered o'er
Forever lost the hue they wore:
How like a death-knell, sad and slow,
Rolls through the soul," one year ago!"

Where is the face we loved to greet?
The form that graced the fireside seat?
The gentle smile, the winning way,
That blessed our life-path day by day?
Where fled those accents soft and low,
That thrilled our hearts "one year ago?"

Ah! vacant is the fireside chair,

The smile that won no longer there:
From door and hall, from porch and lawn,
The echo of that voice is gone,

And we who linger only know
How much was lost "one year ago!"

Beside her grave the marble white
Keeps silent guard by day and night;
Serene she sleeps, nor heeds the tread
Of footsteps near her lowly bed;
Her pulseless breast no more may know
The pangs of life "one year ago."

But why repine? A few more years,
A few more broken sighs and tears,
And we, enlisted with the dead,
Shall follow where her steps have led;
To that far world rejoicing go
To which she passed "one year ago."

HASTE NOT, REST NOT.

AFTER THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.

Without haste, without rest:
Bind the motto to thy breast;
Bear it with thee as a spell,

Storm or sunshine, guard it well;
Heed not flowers that round thee bloom-
Bear it onward to the tomb.

Haste not let no reckless deed
Mar for aye the spirit's speed;
Ponder well, and know the right-
Forward then with all thy might!
Haste not: years cannot atone
For one reckless action done.

Rest not time is sweeping byDo and dare before thou die:

Something mighty, and sublime
Leave behind to conquer time:
Glorious 'tis to live for aye,

When these forms have passed away.

Haste not, rest not: calmly wait;
Meekly bear the storms of fate;
Duty be thy polar guide-
Do the right whate'er betide!
Haste not, rest not: conflicts past,
Good shall crown thy work at last!

Charles Gamage Eastman.

AMERICAN.

Eastman (1816-1860) was a native of Fryeburg, Me., the son of a watch-maker. At eighteen he became a student at the University of Vermont, Burlington. Here, to maintain himself, he taught and wrote for the newspapers, and finally entered upon the career of an editor. In 1846 he bought the Vermont Patriot, published at Montpelier, in the editorship of which he continued until his death. An edition of the poems of Eastman, copyrighted by his widow, was published in Montpelier, in 1880.

SCENE IN A VERMONT WINTER.

'Tis a fearful night in the winter-time, As cold as it ever can be!

The roar of the storm is heard like the chime
Of the waves of an angry sea.

The moon is full, but the wings to-night
Of the furious blast dash out her light;
And over the sky, from south to north,
Not a star is seen as the storm comes forth
In the strength of a mighty glee.

All day had the snow come down-all day,
As it never came down before,
Till over the ground at sunset, lay

Some two or three feet or more.
The fence was lost, and the wall of stone;
The windows blocked and the well-curb gone;
The hay-stack rose to a mountain-lift;
And the wood-pile looked like a monster drift,
As it lay by the farmer's door.

As the night set in, came wind and hail,
While the air grew sharp and chill,
And the warning roar of a fearful gale
Was heard on the distant hill;

And the norther! see! on the mountain peak,

In his breath how the old trees writhe and shriek!

He shouts on the plain, Ho! ho!

He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow, And growls with a savage will!

Such a night as this to be found abroad,
In the hail and the freezing air,
Lies a shivering dog, in the field by the road,
With the snow on his shaggy hair.
As the wind drives, see him crouch and growl,
And shut his eyes with a dismal howl;
Then, to shield himself from the cutting sleet,
His nose is pressed on his quivering feet,-
Pray, what does the dog do there?

An old man came from the town to-night,
But he lost the travelled way;

And for hours he trod with main and might
A path for his horse and sleigh;
But deeper still the snow-drifts grew,
And colder still the fierce wind blew;
And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown,
At last o'er a log had floundered down,
That deep in a hollow lay.

Many a plunge, with a frenzied snort,
She made in the heavy snow;

And her master urged, till his breath grew short,
With a word and a gentle blow;

But the snow was deep, and the tugs were tight,
His hands were numb, and had lost their might;
So he struggled back again to his sleigh,
And strove to shelter himself till day,
With his coat and the buffalo.

He has given the last faint jerk of the rein, To rouse up his dying steed ;

And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain
For help in his master's need.

For awhile he strives with a wistful cry
To catch the glance of his drowsy eye;
And wags his tail when the rude winds flap
The skirts of his coat across his lap,

And whines that he takes no heed.

The wind goes down, the storm is o'er,
'Tis the hour of midnight past;
The forest writhes, and bends no more
In the rush of the sweeping blast.
The moon looks out with a silver light
On the high old hills, with the snow all white,
And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump,
Of ledge and tree, and ghostly stump,

On the silent plain are cast.

But cold and dead-by the hidden log-
Are they who came from the town;
The man in the sleigh, the faithful dog,
And the beautiful Morgan brown!
He sits in his sleigh; with steady grasp
He holds the reins in his icy clasp;
The dog with his nose on his master's feet,
And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet
Where she lay when she floundered down.

THANATOS.

Hush her face is chill, and the summer blossom,
Motionless and still, lies upon her bosom ;
On the shroud so white, like snow in winter weather,
Her marble hands unite quietly together.

Ah, how light the lid on the thin cheek presses!
Still her neck is hid by her golden tresses;
And the lips, that Death left a smile to sever,
Part to woo the breath, gone, alas! forever.

Theodore Martin.

Martin, the son of a lawyer, was born in Edinburgh in 1816. On the completion of his studies at the University, he qualified himself as a solicitor, and in 1846 established himself in that capacity in London. He was associated with Aytoun in the "Bon Gaultier Ballads," which passed through twelve editions. But it was by his excellent translations from Heine, Goethe, and other German writers, and his successful version of Horace (1860), that he won most fame. In 1863 appeared his "Poems, Original and Translated: printed for Private Circulation; and in 1875 the first volume of a "Memoir of Prince Albert :" a work prepared under the Queen's authority, and the second volume of which appeared in 1880, when he was knighted by the Queen, and became Sir Theodore Martin. In 1851 he was married to Miss Helen Faucit, the popular and accomplished actress. As a lawyer he has been prominent and active.

NAPOLEON'S MIDNIGHT REVIEW.

FROM THE GERMAN OF BARON JOSEPH CHRISTIAN VON ZEDLITZ.

At midnight, from the sullen sleep

Of death the drummer rose;

The night winds wail, the moonbeams pale Are hid as forth he goes;

With solemn air and measured step

He paces on his rounds,

And ever and anon with might

The doubling drum he sounds.

His fleshless arms alternately

The rattling sticks let fall,

By turns they beat in rattlings meet
Reveillé and roll-call;

Oh! strangely drear fell on the ear
The echoes of that drum,

Old soldiers from their graves start up
And to its summons come.

They who repose 'mong Northern snows, In icy cerements lapped,

Or in the mould of Italy

All sweltering are wrapped,— Who sleep beneath the oozy Nile,

Or desert's whirling sand, Break from their graves, and, arméd all, Spring up at the command.

And at midnight, from death's sullen sleep,
The trumpeter arose;

He mounts his steed, and loud and long
His pealing trumpet blows;
Each horseman heard it, as he lay

Deep in his gory shroud,
And to the call these heroes all
On airy coursers crowd.

Deep gash and scar their bodies marThey were a ghastly file

And underneath the glittering casques
Their bleached skulls grimly smile;
With haughty mien they grasp their swords
Within their bony hands,-

"Twould fright the brave to see them wave Their long and gleaming brands.

And at midnight, from the sullen sleep
Of death, the chief arose,
Behind him move his officers,

As slowly forth he goes.
His hat is small-upon his coat
No star or crest is strung,
And by his side a little sword-
His only arms-is hung.

The wan moon threw a livid hue
Across the mighty plain,
And he that wore the little hat

Stepped proudly forth again-
And well these grizzly warriors
Their little chieftain knew,
For whom they left their graves that night
To muster in review.