And the great sky, the royal heaven | There came no murmur from the streams, above, Though nigh flowed Leither, Tweed, and Quair.

Darkens with storms or melts in hues of love;

While far remote,

My walls are crumbling, but immortal looks

Smile on me here from faces of rare

books:

Shakespeare consoles

My heart with true philosophies; a balm Of spiritual dews from humbler song or psalm Fills me with tender calm, Or through hushed heavens of soul Milton's deep thunder rolls! And more than all, o'er shattered wrecks of Fate, The relics of a happier time and state, My nobler life Shines on unquenched! O deathless love that lies

In the clear midnight of those passionate eyes!

Joy waneth! Fortune flies! What then? Thou still art here, soul of my soul, my Wife!

ISA CRAIG KNOX.

BALLAD OF THE BRIDES OF QUAIR.

A STILLNESS crept about the house,

At evenfall, in noontide glare; Upon the silent hills looked forth

The many-windowed House of Quair.

The peacock on the terrace screamed;

Browsed on the lawn the timid hare; The great trees grew i' the avenue,

Calm by the sheltered House of Quair.

The pool was still; around its brim
The alders sickened all the air;

The days hold on their wonted pace,
And men to court and camp repair,
Their part to fill, of good or ill,

While women keep the House of Quair.

And one is clad in widow's weeds,

And one is maiden-like and fair, And day by day they seek the paths About the lonely fields of Quair.

HENRY TIMROD.—WALTER F. MITCHELL.

HENRY TIMROD.

[U. s. A.]

Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns
Its fragrant lamps, and turns
Into a royal court with green festoons
The banks of dark lagoons.

SPRING IN CAROLINA.

SPRING, with that nameless pathos in the At times a fragrant breeze comes floating

air

by,

Which dwells with all things fair,
Spring, with her golden suns and silver
rain,

And brings, you know not why,
A feeling as when eager crowds await
Before a palace gate

Is with us once again.

In the deep heart of every forest tree
The blood is all aglee,

And there's a look about the leafless

bowers

As if they dreamed of flowers.

Yet still on every side we trace the hand
Of Winter in the land,

Save where the maple reddens on the
lawn,

Flushed by the season's dawn;

Or where, like those strange semblances

we find

311

Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn

That, not a span below,

A thousand gerins are groping through
the gloom,
And soon will burst their tomb.

In gardens you may note amid the dearth,
The crocus breaking earth;
And near the snowdrop's tender white
and green,
The violet in its screen.

In the sweet airs of morn;

One almost looks to see the very street
Grow purple at his feet.

But many gleams and shadows need must
pass

Along the budding grass,
And weeks go by, before the enamored
South

Shall kiss the rose's mouth.

That age to childhood bind,

The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, Open one point on the weather-bow,

The brown of autumn corn.

Is the lighthouse tall on Fire Island
Head?

As yet the turf is dark, although you There's a shade of doubt on the captain's

know

brow,

And the pilot watches the heaving lead.

Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce
would start,
If from a beech's heart,

A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should
say,
"Behold me! I am May!"

WALTER F. MITCHELL.

[U. s. A.]

TACKING SHIP OFF SHORE.

THE weather-leech of the topsail shivers, The bow-lines strain, and the lee-shrouds slacken,

The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers, And the waves with the coming squallcloud blacken.

I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye,
To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze,
Till the muttered order of “ Full and by!”
Is suddenly changed for “Full for stays!”

The ship bends lower before the breeze,
As her broadside fair to the blast she lays;
And she swifter springs to the rising seas,
As the pilot calls, "Stand by for stays!"

It is silence all, as each in his place,
With the gathered coil in his hardened
hands,

By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace,
Waiting the watchword impatient stands.

And the light on Fire Island Head draws | What matters the reef, or the rain, or the

near,

squall?

As, trumpet-winged, the pilot's shout
From his post on the bowsprit's heel I
hear,

I steady the helm for the open sea;
The first mate clamors, "Belay there,
all!"

With the welcome call of, "Ready!
About!"

And the captain's breath once more comes free.