W

The Distant Hills.

HILE in a land of flowers

My feet were set, where it seemed always June, And Nature sang at her work a pleasant tune, For joy in the long bright hours,

I did not often care

From the bright fields to lift my happy eyes,
Where, a blue shadow on the sunny skies,
Arose those summits fair.

But as the path led on,

Quick clouds arose the smiling heavens to hide;
With sudden bend the pathway turned aside
Where fields were bare and brown.

All things looked sad and strange;

The sunlight faded, and the flowers gone,
In a rough path I seemed to stand alone,
Bewildered by the change.

Then lifting up my eyes,
Behold how beautiful, serene, and clear,
Bright with the radiance that has vanished here,
The distant hills arise.

All robed and crowned with light

That cannot fade, in beautiful array
Distinct they stand against the clouds of gray,
A vision of delight.

Renewed in strength I stand,

I see no more the landscape brown and vast;
No path seems long or dark that leads at last
Into that glorious land.

STANZAS.

There shall all trouble cease

Forevermore; and never fear nor dread

Nor change can reach the happy ones that tread
Those pleasant paths of peace.

A refuge and defense

They are to me; above all present ills

I lift my eyes unto the distant hills,

And all my help is thence.

423

REBECCA S. PALFREY.

TH

Stanzas.

HOUGHT is deeper than all speech,
Feeling deeper than all thought;

Souls to souls can never teach
What unto themselves was taught.

We are spirits clad in veils ;
Man by man was never seen;
All our deep communing fails
To remove the shadowy screen.

Heart to heart was never known;
Mind with mind did never meet;
We are columns left alone

Of a temple once complete.

Like the stars that gem the sky,
Far apart though seeming near,

In our light we scattered lie ;
All is thus but starlight here.

What is social company

But a babbling summer stream?

What our wise philosophy

But the glancing of a dream?

Only when the sun of love

Melts the scattered stars of thought,
Only when we live above

What the dim-eyed world hath taught,

Only when our souls are fed

By the fount which gave them birth, And by inspiration led

Which they never drew from earth,

We, like parted drops of rain,
Swelling till they meet and run,

Shall be all absorbed again,

Melting, flowing into one.

CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH.

B

A Virtuoso.

E seated, pray. "A

grave appeal? The sufferers by the war, of course;

Ah, what a sight for us who feel,

This monstrous mélodrame of Force! We, sir, we connoisseurs, should know On whom its heaviest burden falls; Collections shattered at a blow, Museums turned to hospitals!

"And worse," you say; "the wide distress!" Alas! 't is true distress exists,

Though, let me add, our worthy Press

Have no mean skill as colorists;

Speaking of color, next your seat

There hangs a sketch from Vernet's hand;

Some Moscow fancy, incomplete,

Yet not indifferently planned;

A VIRTUOSO.

Note specially the gray old Guard,
Who tears his tattered coat to wrap
A closer bandage round the scarred

And frozen comrade in his lap;
But, as regards the present war,

Now don't you think our pride of pence
Goes may I say it? - somewhat far
For objects of benevolence?

Though ranking Paris next to Rome, Esthetically still reply

That "Charity begins at Home." The words remind me. Did you catch

My so-named "Hunt"? The girl's a gem ;

And look how those lean rascals snatch
The pile of scraps she brings to them!

"But your appeal 's for home,” you say,
"For home, and English poor!" Indeed!
I thought Philanthropy to-day

Was blind to mere domestic need-
However sore Yet though one grants

That home should have the foremost claims, At least these Continental wants

Assume intelligible names;

While here with us - Ah! who could hope

To verify the varied pleas,

Or from his private means to cope
With all our shrill necessities?
Impossible! One might as well

Attempt comparison of creeds;

Or fill that huge Malayan shell

With these half-dozen Indian beads.

Moreover, add that every one

So well exalts his pet distress,

425

If

'Tis - Give to all, or give to none,
you 'd avoid invidiousness.
Your case, I feel, is sad as A.'s,

The same applies to B.'s and C.'s;
By my selection I should raise
An alphabet of rivalries ;

And life is short- I see you look
At yonder dish, a priceless bit;
You'll find it etched in Jacquemart's book,
They say that Raphael painted it;-
And life is short, you understand:
So, if I only hold you out

An open though an empty hand,

Why, you'll forgive me, I've no doubt.

Nay, do not rise. You seem amused;
One can but be consistent, sir!
'T was on these grounds I just refused
Some gushing lady-almoner,

Believe me, on these very grounds.

Good-by, then. Ah, a rarity!

That cost me quite three hundred pounds,

That Dürer figure,

"Charity."

AUSTIN Dobson.

I

Hymn to the Night.

HEARD the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!

I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
Stoop o'er me from above;

The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.