A REMEMBRANCE

I SEE thee still! thou art not dead,
Though dust is mingled with thy form;
The broken sunbeam hath not shed
The final rainbow on the storm:
In visions of the midnight deep,

Thine accents through my bosom thrill
Till joy's fond impulse bids me weep,
For, wrapt in thought, I see thee still!

I see thee still, that cheek of rose, Those lips with dewy fragrance wet, – That forehead in serene repose,

Those soul-lit eyes I see them yet! Sweet seraph! Sure thou art not dead, Thou gracest still this earthly sphere; An influence still is round me shed, Like thine, and yet thou art not here!

Farewell, beloved! To mortal sight

Thy vermeil cheek no more may bloom; No more thy smiles inspire delight,

For thou art garnered in the tomb,Rich harvest for that ruthless power Which hath me bound to bear his will: Yet, as in hope's unclouded hour, Throned in my heart I see thee still. WILLIS GAYLORD CLARKE

IV

Softly!
She is dying

Of a broken heart.

Whisper !

Life is growing

Dim within her breast;

Whisper !
She is going

To her final rest.

HERE I come creeping, creeping everywhere;

By the dusty roadside,
On the sunny hill-side,
Close by the noisy brook,

In every shady nook,

I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere;
All around the open door,
Where sit the aged poor;
Here where the children play,
In the bright and merry May,
I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;

In the noisy city street

My pleasant face you'll meet,

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere:

When you 're numbered with the dead In your still and narrow bed, In the happy spring I'll come And deck your silent home Creeping, silently creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;

My humble song of praise
Most joyfully I raise

To Him at whose command
I beautify the land,

Creeping, silently creeping everywhere.

SARAH ROBERTS BOYLE

My fate perchance! But as I write

I see through Time's reverted glass,
In fleckered mists of shade and light,
The phantoms of the ages pass.

I see an infant, tired with play,
Sleep sweetly in Apulia's wild,
And doves bring myrtle leaves and bay
To cover the courageous child.

A stripling walks the streets of Rome,
With slate and satchel on his arm;
His life abroad, his ways at home,
A loving father's care and charm.
Fulfilment of his boyhood's dream,
Greece welcomes now the freedman's son;
He haunts the groves of Academe,
And quaffs the springs of Helicon.

Light of the World! the central seat
Of wit and wisdom, art and lore,

In Athens patriot exiles meet
Where bards and sages met before.

No athlete, and no warrior he.
With Brutus on Philippi's field,
The darling of Melpomene,

Not bravely, throws away his shield.

Her fleets dispersed and tempest-tost,
Her armies crushed, their leaders slain,—
Now is the great Republic lost,

Lost never to revive again.

The Julian star ascends the sky,

It shines on groups of learned men,

Sip it, my darling, 't was ordered for thee."
He raises his glass, "A toi, Mimi!"
The garçon shudders, for nothing is there
In the lady's place but an empty chair.
But still, with an air of fierce unrest,
The vicomte addresses an unseen guest.
"Leave us, Antoine: we have much to say,
And time is precious to me to-day."
When the garçon was gone he sprang up
with a start:

"Mimi is dead of a broken heart.
Could I think, when she gave it with gen-

erous joy,

A woman's heart such a fragile toy?
Her trim little figure no longer I see!
Would I were lying with thee, Mimi!
For what is life but a hell to me?
What splendor and wealth but misery ?”
A jet of flame and a whirl of smoke!
A detonation the silence broke.
The landlord enters, and lying there
Is the dead vicomte, with a stony glare
Rigidly fixed on an empty chair.
"Il faut avertir le commissaire !
Ma foi! Chez Brébant ces choses sont rares !”

FRANCIS ALEXANDER DURIVAGE

CORNELIUS MATHEWS