The place where Spring and Summer meet-
By heart, like those old ballad rhymes,
O'er which I brood a million times,
And sink from sweet to deeper sweet.
I know the changes of the idle skies,
The idle shapes in which the clouds are blown;
The dear old place is now before my eyes,
Yea, to the daisy's shadow on the stone.
When through the golden furnace of the heat.
The far-off landscape seems to shake and beat,
Within the lake I see old Hodge's cows
Stand in their shadows in a tranquil drowse,
While o'er them hangs a restless steam of flies.
I see the clustered chimneys of the hall
Stretch o'er the lawn toward the blazing lake;
And in the dewy even-fall

I hear the mellow thrushes call

From tree to tree, from brake to brake.

Ah! when I thither go

I know that my joy-emptied eyes shall see

A white Ghost wandering where the lilies blow,

A Sorrow sitting by the trysting-tree.

I kiss this soft curl of her living hair,
'Tis full of light as when she did unbind

Her sudden ringlets, making bright the wind: 'Tis here, but she is-where?

Why do I, like a child impatient, weep?
Delight dies like a wreath of frosted breath;
Though here I toil upon the barren deep,
I see the sunshine yonder lie asleep
Upon the calm and beauteous shores of Death.
Ah, Maurice, let thy human heart decide,
The first best pilot through distracting jars.
The lowliest roof of love at least will hide
The desolation of the lonely stars.
Stretched on the painful rack of forty years,
I've learned at last the sad philosophy
Of the unhoping heart, unshrinking eye-
God knows; my icy wisdom and my sneers
Are frozen tears!

The day wears, and I go.
Farewell, Elijah! may you heartily dine!
I cannot, David, see your fingers twine
In the long hair of your foe.

Housewife, adieu, Heaven keep your ample form;

May custom never fail ;

And may your heart, as sound as your own ale, Be soured by never a storm!

Though I have travelled now for twice an hour,

I have not heard a bird or seen a flower.
This wild road has a little mountain-rill
To sing to it, ah! happier than I.
How desolate the region, and how still
The idle earth looks on the idle sky!

I trace the river by its wandering green;
The vale contracts to a steep pass of fear,
And through the midnight of the pines I hear
The torrent raging down the long ravine.

At last I've reached the summit high and bare;

I fling myself on heather dry and brown:
As silent as a picture lies the town,
Its peaceful smokes are curling in the air;
The bay is one delicious sheet of rose,
And round the far point of the tinted cliffs
I see the long strings of the fishing-skiffs

Of maddened peoples throwing palms
Before each cheered and timbreled lie.
I loathed the brazen front and brag
Of bloated time; in self-defence
Withdrew I to my lonely crag,

And fortress of indifference.

But Nature is revenged on those

Who turn from her to lonely days: Contentment, like the speedwell, blows Along the common-beaten ways. The dead and thick green-mantled moats That gird my house resembled me, Or some long-weeded hull that rots Upon a glazing tropic sea.

And madness ever round us lies,

The final bourne and end of thought; And Pleasure shuts her glorious eyes

At one cold glance and melts to naught; And Nature cannot hear us moan;

She smiles in sunshine, raves in rainThe music breathed by Love alone

Can ease the world's immortal pain.

The sun forever hastes sublime,

Waved onward by Orion's lance; Obedient to the spheral chime,

Across the world the seasons dance; The flaming elements ne'er bewail

Their iron bounds, their less or more; The sea can drown a thousand sail,

Yet rounds the pebbles on the shore.

I looked with pride on what I'd done,
I counted merits o'er anew,
In presence of the burning sun,

Which drinks me like a drop of dew. A lofty scorn I dared to shed

On human passions, hopes, and jars, I-standing on the countless dead,

And pitied by the countless stars.

But mine is now a humbled heart,

My lonely pride is weak as tears; No more I seek to stand apart,

A mocker of the rolling years. Imprisoned in this wintry clime,

I've found enough, O Lord of breathEnough to plume the feet of time,

Enough to hide the eyes of death.

659

Joy like a stream flows through the Christmas

streets,

But I am sitting in my silent room,

Sitting all silent in congenial gloom.

To-night, while half the world the other greets With smiles and grasping hands and drinks and meats,

I sit and muse on my poetic doom:
Like the dim scent within a budded rose
A joy is folded in my heart; and when

I think on poets nurtured 'mong the throes,
And by the lowly hearths of common men-
Think of their works, some song, some swelling
With gorgeous music growing to a close, [ode
Deep-muffled as the dead-march of a god-
My heart is burning to be one of those.

I WROTE a Name upon the river-sands,
With her who bore it standing by my side,
Her large dark eyes lit up with gentle pride;
And leaning on my arm with clasped hands,
To burning words of mine she thus replied:
"Nay, writ not on thy heart. This tablet frail
Fitteth as frail a vow. Fantastic bands

Will scarce confine these limbs." I turned lovepale,

I gazed upon the rivered landscape wide,
And thought how little it would all avail
Without her love. 'T was on a morn of May;
Within a month I stood upon the sand,

Gone was the name I traced with trembling hand

And from my heart 't was also gone away.

SHEATHED is the river as it glideth by,
Frost-pearled are all the boughs in forest old,
The sheep are huddling close upon the wold,
And over them the stars tremble on high.
Pure joys these winter nights around me lie;
'Tis fine to loiter through the lighted streets
At Christmas - time, and guess from brow and
pace

The doom and history of each one we meet,
What kind of heart beats in each dusky case;
Whiles startled by the beauty of a face
In a shop-light a moment. Ör instead,
To dream of silent fields where calm and deep
The sunshine lieth like a golden sleep-
Recalling sweetest looks of summers dead.

SONNETS.

I CANNOT deem why men so toil for Fame.
A porter is a porter though his load

Be the oceaned world, and although his road
Be down the ages. What is in a name?
Ah! 'tis our spirit's curse to strive and seek.
Although its heart is rich in pearls and ores,
The sea complains upon a thousand shores;
Sea-like we moan forever! We are weak.

We ever hunger for diviner stores:
I cannot say I have a thirsting deep
For human fame, nor is my spirit bowed
To be a mummy above-ground to keep
For stare and handling of the vulgar crowd,
Defrauded of my natural rest and sleep.

THERE have been vast displays of critic wit
O'er those who vainly flutter feeble wings,
Nor rise an inch 'bove-ground-weak poetlings!
And on them to the death men's brows are knit.
Ye men! ye critics! seems 't so very fit
They on a storm of laughter should be blown
O'er the world's edge to Limbo? Be it known,
Ye men! ye critics! that beneath the sun
The chiefest woe is this-When all alone,
And strong as life, a soul's great currents run
Poesy-ward, like rivers to the sea,

But never reach 't. Critic, let that soul moan
In its own hell without a kick from thee.
Kind Death, kiss gently, ease this weary one!

CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY was born in 1831. He has published "Translations into English and Latin," 1866; "Verses and Translations," 1871; and "Fly Leaves," 1872. The latter two have passed through several editions in England, and the "Fly Leaves," together with all of the for

mer volume except the translations, has been republished in New York. Edmund C. Stedman pronounces Calverley's complete rendition of Theocritus "undoubtedly as good as can be made by one who fears to undertake the origi nal metres."

THE ARAB.

ON, on, my brown Arab, away, away!
Thou hast trotted o'er many a mile to-day,
And I trow right meagre hath been thy fare
Since they roused thee at dawn from thy straw-
piled lair,

To tread with those echoless unshod feet
Yon weltering flats in the noontide heat,
Where no palm-tree proffers a kindly shade,
And the eye never rests on a cool grass-blade;
And lank is thy flank, and thy frequent cough,
Oh! it goes to my heart-but away, friend, off!

And yet, ah! what sculptor who saw thee stand,

As thou standest now, on thy Native Strand, With the wild wind ruffling thine uncombed hair, And thy nostril upturned to the od❜rous air, Would not woo thee to pause, till his skill might

LINES ON HEARING THE ORGAN.

GRINDER, who serenely grindest

At my door the Hundredth Psalm, Till thou ultimately findest Pence in thine unwashen palm:

Grinder, jocund-hearted Grinder, Near whom Barbary's nimble son, Poised with skill upon his hinder Paws, accepts the proffered bun:

Dearly do I love thy grinding;

Joy to meet thee on the road Where thou prowlest through the blinding Dust with that stupendous load

Neath the baleful star of Sirius, When the postmen slowlier jog, And the ox becomes delirious,

And the muzzle decks the dog.

Tell me by what art thou bindest

On thy feet those ancient shoon: Tell me, Grinder, if thou grindest Always, always out of tune.

Tell me if, as thou art buckling

On thy straps with eager claws, Thou forecastest, inly chuckling, All the rage that thou wilt cause.

Tell me if at all thou mindest

When folks flee, as if on wings, From thee as at ease thou grindest: Tell me fifty thousand things.

Grinder, gentle-hearted Grinder!
Ruffians who led evil lives,
Soothed by thy sweet strains are kinder
To their bullocks and their wives: