THE FOUNT OF CASTALY.

BY JOSEPH O'CONNOR.

Joseph O'Connor was born at Tribes Hill, N. Y., in 1841. He is a graduate of Rochester university, and was admitted to the bar, but never practiced. He taught for a while at the Rochester free academy, but soon left this work for journalism and became editor of the Rochester Post and Express. His poems were published in 1895.

THE ROSE.

BY PIERRE RONSARD.

This poem of Pierre Ronsard (1542) is given a place here, as it is an example of that theme which is as old as love or life-the decay of youth and beauty-a subject which has been a favorite with poets in all times. The motive of this little lyric is that of Waller's "Go, Lovely Rose," and of Herrick's "Gather Ye Rosebuds While Ye May."

FAITH.

BY THOMAS CHATTERTON.

Thomas Chatterton was born in Bristol, England, Nov. 20, 1752. He ended his life by taking arsenic in a lodging room in London, Aug. 24, 1770. He received a meager education at a charity school in his native city, began to write verses when he was 12 years old, and at 15 was apprenticed to a Bristol attorney. He went to London in April, 1770. He tried to make a living by writing for the newspapers, but failed, and, reduced to extreme destitution, committed suicide. His Rowley poems, which he said were translations from the writings of a monk of the fifteenth century, have been the subject of much discussion. Besides those he wrote "The Tragedy of Aella," "The Battle of Hastings," "The Tournament," and several shorter poems. His correspondence with Horace Walpole proved a bitter experience for the precocious poet, who wrote some savage lines on that nobleman author.

O God, whose thunder shakes the sky,
Whose eye this atom globe surveys,

To thee, my only rock, I fly,

Thy mercy in thy justice praise.

The mystic mazes of thy will,

The shadows of celestial light,
Are past the power of human skill;
But what the Eternal acts is right.

Oh, teach me in the trying hour,

When anguish swells the dewy tear,
To still my sorrows, own thy power,
Thy goodness love, thy justice fear.

If in this bosom aught but thee
Encroaching sought a boundless sway,
Omniscience could the danger see,
And Mercy look the cause away.

Then why, my soul, dost thou complain,
Why drooping seek the dark recess?

Shake off the melancholy chain,

For God created all to bless.

But ah! my breast is human still;
The rising sigh, the falling tear,

My languid vitals' feeble rill,

The sickness of my soul declare.

1

Bayard Taylor was born in Pennsylvania in 1825. He was connected with the New York Tribune 1849-'50. Most of his life was spent in travel. In 1853 he joined Perry's expedition to Japan. He corresponded with the American papers, and on his return to this country he lectured. From 1862-'63 he lived at St. Petersburg as Secretary of the Legation there. He died in Berlin, where he was United States Minister, in 1878. He has written of his travels, has translated Goethe's "Faust," and was besides a poet and novelist.

"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried,

The outer trenches guarding,

When the heated guns of the camps allied

Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff,

Lay grim and threatening under;
And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
No longer belch'd its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said:
"We storm the forts tomorrow;

Sing while we may, another day

Will bring enough of sorrow."

They lay along the battery's side,
Below the smoking cannon;

Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde
And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love and not of fame;
Forgot was Britain's glory;

Each heart recalled a different name,
But all sang "Annie Laurie."