alls flat before your least unwillingness. till would you if it please you-sit

to me?

I dream'd last night of that clear

summer noon,

When seated on a rock, and foot to foot Vith your own shadow in the placid lake, 'ou claspt our infant daughter, heart to heart.

had been among the hills, and brought you down

▲ length of staghorn-moss, and this you twined

About her cap. I see the picture yet, Mother and child. A sound from far away, No louder than a bee among the flowers, A fall of water lull'd the noon asleep. You still'd it for the moment with a song Which often echo'd in me, while I stood Before the great Madonna-masterpieces Of ancient Art in Paris, or in Rome.

Mary, my crayons! if I can, I will. You should have been-I might have made you once,

Had I but known you as I know you

'This model husband, this fine Artist'! Fool,

What matters? Six foot deep of burial mould

Will dull their comments! Ay, but when the shout

Of His descending peals from Heaven, and throbs

Thro' earth, and all her graves, if He should ask,

'Why left you wife and children? for my sake,

According to my word?' and I replied, 'Nay, Lord, for Art,' why, that would sound so mean

That all the dead, who wait the doom of Hell

For bolder sins than mine, adulteries,

Bards, that the mighty Muses have raise to the heights of the mountain, And over the flight of the Ages!! Goddesses, help me up thither. Lightning may shrivel the laurel a

Cæsar, but mine would not withe Steep is the mountain, but you, you si help me to overcome it,

And stand with my head in the zer and roll my voice from the summ Sounding for ever and ever thro' Ea and her listening nations, And mixt with the great Sphere-music stars and of constellations.

II.

What be those two shapes high over t sacred fountain,

Taller than all the Muses, and baga than all the mountain?

On those two known peaks they sta ever spreading and heightening, Poet, that evergreen laurel is blasted more than lightning! Look, in their deep double shadow crown'd ones all disappearing! Sing like a bird and be happy, nor for a deathless hearing! 'Sounding for ever and ever?' pass ot the sight confuses

These are Astronomy and Geology, te rible Muses!

III.

If the lips were touch'd with fire from of a pure Pierian altar,

Tho' their music here be mortal need singer greatly care?

Other songs for other worlds! the fre within him would not falter; Let the golden Iliad vanish, Homer ber is Homer there.

BY AN EVOLUTIONIST.

THE Lord let the house of a brute to t soul of a man,

And the man said, 'Am I your debtor? And the Lord-'Not yet: but make f as clean as you can, And then I will let you a better."

I.

If my body come from brutes, my soul uncertain, or a fable,

Why not bask amid the senses while the sun of morning shines,

I, the finer brute rejoicing in my hounds, and in my stable, Youth and Health, and birth and wealth, and choice of women and of wines?

II.

What hast thou done for me, grim Old Age, save breaking my bones on the rack?

Would I had past in the morning that looks so bright from afar!

OLD AGE.

Done for thee? starved the wild beast that was linkt with thee eighty years back.

Less weight now for the ladder-ofheaven that hangs on a star.

I.

If my body come from brutes, tho' somewhat finer than their own,

I am heir, and this my kingdom. Shall the royal voice be mute? No, but if the rebel subject seek to drag me from the throne,

Hold the sceptre, Human Soul, and rule thy Province of the brute.

II.

I have climb'd to the snows of Age, and
I gaze at a field in the Past,
Where I sank with the body at times
in the sloughs of a low desire,
But I hear no yelp of the beast, and the

Man is quiet at last

As he stands on the heights of his life with a glimpse of a height that is higher.

FAR FAR AWAY.

(FOR MUSIC.)

WHAT sight so lured him thro' the fields

he knew

WE move, the wheel must always move, Nor always on the plain,

And if we move to such a goal

As Wisdom hopes to gain, Then you that drive, and know your Craft, Will firmly hold the rein, Nor lend an ear to random cries, Or you may drive in vain,

For some cry Quick' and some cry 'Slow,'

But, while the hills remain, Up hill Too-slow' will need the whip, Down hill 'Too-quick,' the chain.

BEAUTIFUL CITY.

BEAUTIFUL city, the centre and crater of European confusion,

O you with your passionate shriek for the rights of an equal humanity,