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FRANCIS BRET HARTE.
And the citadel was lighted, and the hall | Till one arose, and from his pack's scant
was gayly drest,
A hoarded volume drew,
And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure
And exchanged congratulation with the And
To hear the tale anew;
then, while round them shadows gathered faster,
And as the firelight fell,
Till the formal speeches ended, and He read aloud the book wherein the
amidst the laugh and wine
Some one spoke of Concha's lover,
heedless of the warning sign.
Quickly then cried Sir George Simpson:
"Speak no ill of him, I pray.
Had writ of "Little Nell."
Perhaps 't was boyish fancy, -for the reader
Was youngest of them all,
He is dead. He died, poor fellow, forty But, as he read, from clustering pine and
years ago this day.
A silence seemed to fall;
fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows,
Listened in every spray, While the whole camp, with "Nell" on English meadows,
Wandered and lost their way.
And so in mountain solitudes- o'ertaken
From out the gusty pine.
Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire: And he who wrought that spell? towering pine, and stately Kentish spire,
Ye have one tale to tell!
Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant
Blend with the breath that thrills With hop-vines' inceuse all the pensive glory
That fills the Kentish hills.
The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, And on that grave where English oak
The ruddy tints of health
On haggard face, and form that drooped
In the fierce race for wealth;
And laurel wreaths entwine,
Deem it not all a too presumptuous
This spray of Western pine!
THEY gave the whole long day to idle I KNEW a Princess: she was old,
To fitful song and jest,
To moods of soberness as idle, after,
But when at last upon their way returning,
Taciturn, late, and loath, Through the broad meadow in the sunset burning,
They reached the gate, one fine spell hindered them both.
Her heart was troubled with a subtile anguish
Such as but women know
That wait, and lest love speak or speak not languish,
And what they would, would rather they would not so;
Crisp-haired, flat-featured, with a look Such as no dainty pen of gold
Would write of in a Fairy Book.
So bent she almost crouched, her face Was like the Sphinx's face, to me, Touched with vast patience, desert grace, And lonesome, brooding mystery.
What wonder that a faith so strong
As hers, so sorrowful, so still, Should watch in bitter sands so long, Obedient to a burdening will!
This Princess was a Slave, - like one
And all the flowers, without a vail.
Not of the Lamp, not of the Ring,
Till he said,-man-like nothing compre- But of a subtler, fiercer Thing:
Of all the wondrous guile That women won win themselves with, and bending
Eyes of relentless asking on her the
She was the Slave of Slavery. Court-lace nor jewels had she seen:
That at her side the whitest queen
She wore a precious smile, so rare
Were dark, her darkness was so fair.
Nothing of loveliest loveliness
This strange, sad Princess seemed to lack; Majestic with her calm distress
She was, and beautiful though black:
Then she-whom both his faith and fear Black, but enchanted black, and shut
Far beyond words to tell,
Feeling her woman's finest wit had
The art he had that knew to blunder so well
In some vague Giant's tower of air, Built higher than her hope was. But The True Knight came and found her there.
The Knight of the Pale Horse, he laid
Shyly drew near, a little step, and mock- That hid her Self: as if afraid;
The cruel blackness shrank and fell.
Then, lifting slow her pleasant sleep,
And vanished up an awful Height.
All the hearts are not dead, nor under the sod,
That those breaths can blow open to Heaven and God!
Ah, "Silver Street" leads by a bright golden road,
-O, not to the hymns that in harmony flowed,
But those sweet human psalms in the old-fashioned choir,
To the girl that sang alto, -the girl that sang air!
"Let us sing in His praise," the good minister said,
All the psalm-books at once fluttered open at "York,"
Sunned their long dotted wings in the words that he read,
While the leader leaped into the tune just ahead,
And politely picked up the key-note with a fork, And the vicious old viol went growling along,
At the heels of the girls, in the rear of
I need not a wing,-bid no genii come, With a wonderful web from Arabian loom, To bear me again up the river of Time,
She doubted, once upon a time,
Because it took away her sight,
It would not let her haters sleep.
This light is out in Italy,
Her eyes shall seek for it in vain! For her sweet sake it spent itself,
Too early flickering to its wane, Too long blown over by her pain. Bow down and weep, O Italy, Thou canst not kindle it again!
THE wind was whispering to the vines
Till from a slow-consenting cloud
And sudden something in me stirred,
Ah! glad was I as any bird
I had a carven missal once,
Though merely in a childish wise
Two pitying angel eyes looked down.
How often in the bitter night
Then have I said: "Ah! Christ the Lord!
Now, in the moon's transfiguring light,
I took you through deep soundings where
My heart withdrew into itself,
[U. s. A.]
A WOMAN'S LOVE.
A SENTINEL angel sitting high in glory Heard this shrill wail ring out from Pur gatory:
"Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story!