There's a bell in Moscow;
While on tower and kiosk O
In St. Sophia

The Turkman gets,
And loud in air
Calls men to prayer,
From the tapering summit

Of tall minarets.

Such empty phantom
I freely grant them;
But there's an anthem

More dear to me,
'T is the bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.

FATHER PROUT (FRANCIS MAHONY).

DRIFTING.

My soul to-day

Is far away,
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;

My winged boat,

A bird afloat,
Swims round the purple peaks remote: -

Round purple peaks

It sails, and seeks
Blue inlets, and their crystal creeks,

Where high rocks throw,

Through deeps below, A duplicated golden glow.

Far, vague and dim,

The mountains swim:
While on Vesuvius' misty brim,

With outstretched hands,
The
gray

smoke stands O’erlooking the volcanic lands.

Here Ischia smiles

O'er liquid miles;
And yonder, bluest of the isles,

Čalm Capri waits,

Her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates.

I heed not, if

My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; —

With dreamful eyes

My spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise.

Under the walls

Where swells and falls
The Bay's deep breast at intervals,

At peace I lie,

Blown softly by,
A cloud upon this liquid sky.

The day, so mild,

Is Heaven's own child,
With Earth and Ocean reconciled;

The airs I feel

Around me steal Are murmuring to the murmuring keel.

Over the rail

My hand I trail
Within the shadow of the sail,

A joy intense,

The cooling sense,
Glides down my drowsy indolence.

With dreamful eyes

My spirit lies Where Summer sings and never dies,-

O’erveiled with vines,

She glows and shines Among her future oil and wines.

Her children hid

The cliffs amid, Are gambolling with the gambolling kid;

Or down the walls,

With tipsy calls,
Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls.

The fisher's child,

With tresses wild,
Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled,

With glowing lips

Sings as she skips,
Or gazes at the far-off ships.

Yon deep bark goes

Where traffic blows,
From lands of sun to lands of snows;

This happier one,

Its course is run
From lands of snow to lands of sun.

Oh, happy ship,

To rise and dip,
With the blue crystal at your lip!

Oh, happy crew,

My heart with you
Sails, and sails, and sings anew!

No more, no more

The worldly shore
Upbraids me with its loud uproar!

With dreamful eyes

My spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise.

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

DICKENS IN CAMP.

ABOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting,

The river sang below;
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting

Their minarets of snow.

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted

The ruddy tints of health

On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted

In the fierce race for wealth;

Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure

A hoarded volume drew,
And cards were dropped from hands of. listless leisure,

To hear the tale anew;

And then, while round them shadows gathered faster,

And as the firelight fell,
He read aloud the book wherein the Master

Had writ of " Little Nell.”

Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy,— for the reader

Was youngest of them all,-
But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar

A silence seemed to fall;

The 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

As by some spell divine -
Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken

From out the gusty pine.

Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire;

And he who wrought that spell,
Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire,

Ye have one tale to tell!

Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story

Blend with the breath that thrills With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory

That fills the Kentish hills.

And on that grave where English oak and holly

And laurel wreaths intwine, Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,

This spray of Western pine.

BRET HARTE.

EVANGELINE ON THE PRAIRIE.

a

BEAUTIFUL was the night. Behind the black wall of the

forest, Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the

river Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam

of the moonlight, Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious

spirit. Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the

garden Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers

and confessions Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian. Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows

and night-dews, Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical

moonlight Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings, As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade of the

oak-trees, Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless

prairie. Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers. Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens, Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and

worship, Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that

temple, As if a hand had appeared and written upon them

“Upharsin." And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire

flies, Wandered alone, and she cried, “O, Gabriel! O, my be

loved! Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee! Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach

me? Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie! Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands