Ah, well!

That's just the way I would choose to fall, With my back to the wall!"

("Sacré Fair, open fight, I say, Is something right gallant in its way, And fine for warming the blood; but who Wants wolfish work like this to do? Bah! 't is a butcher's business!) How! (The boy is beckoning to me now:

I knew that his poor child's heart would fail,

Yet his check 's not pale:)

Quick! say your say, for don't you see, When the church-clock youder tolls out

Three,

You 're all to be shot?

.. What?

'Excuse you one moment?' O, ho, ho! Do

you think to fool a gendarme so?"

"But, sir, here's a watch that a friend, one day

(My father's friend), just over the way, Lent me; and if you'll let me free, -It still lacks seven minutes of Three,I'll come, on the word of a soldier's son, Straight back into line, when my errand's done."

"Ha, ha! No doubt of it! Off! Begone!

(Now, good Saint Denis, speed him on! The work will be easier since he's saved; For I hardly see how I could have braved The ardor of that innocent eye,

As he stood and heard, While I gave the word, Dooming him like a dog to die.")

"In time! Well, thanks, that my desire Was granted; and now, I am ready:Fire!

One word!- that's all! -You'll let me turn my back to the wall?"

"Parbleu! Come out of the line, I say, Come out! (who said that his name was Ney!) Ha! France will hear of him yet one day!"

A GRAVE IN HOLLYWOOD CEMETERY, RICHMOND

(J. R. T.)

I READ the marble-lettered name,
And half in bitterness I said:
"As Dante from Ravenna came,

Our poet came from exile-dead."
And yet, had it been asked of him

Where he would rather lay his head,
This spot he would have chosen. Dim

The city's hum drifts o'er his grave,
And green above the hollies wave
Their jagged leaves, as when a boy,
On blissful summer afternoons,

He came to sing the birds his runes,
And tell the river of his joy.

Who dreams that in his wanderings wide, By stern misfortunes tossed and driven,

Ilis soul's electric strands were riven From home and country? Let betide What might, what would, his boast, his pride,

Was in his stricken mother-land,

That could but bless and bid him go, Because no crust was in her hand

To stay her children's need. We know The mystic cable sank too deep

For surface storm or stress to strain,
Or from his answering heart to keep
The spark from flashing back again!

Think of the thousand mellow rhymes,
The pure idyllic passion-flowers,
Wherewith, in far gone, happier times,
He garlanded this South of ours.
Provençal-like, he wandered long,

And sang at many a stranger's board,
Yet 't was Virginia's name that poured
The tenderest pathos through his song.
We owe the Poet praise and tears,

Whose ringing ballad sends the brave,
Bold Stuart riding down the years -
What have we given him?
grave!

Just

MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME, GOOD-NIGHT

THE sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home;.

'Tis summer, the darkeys are gay; The corn-top 's ripe, and the meadow's in the bloom,

While the birds make music all the day. The young folks roll on the little cabin floor,

All merry, all happy and bright; By-'n'-by hard times comes a-knocking at the door:

Then my old Kentucky home, goodnight!

Weep no more, my lady,
O, weep no more to-day!

We will sing one song for the old Ken-
tucky home,

For the old Kentucky home, far away.

They hunt no more for the possum and the

All round de little farm I wandered
When I was young,

Den many happy days I squandered,
Many de songs I sung.
When I was playing wid my brudder
Happy was I;

Oh, take me to my kind old mudder!
Dere let me live and die.

One little hut among de bushes,
One dat I love,

Still sadly to my memory rushes,
No matter where I rove.
When will I see de bees a-humming
All round de comb?

When will I hear do banjo tumming,
Down in my good old home?

All de world am sad and dreary,
Eberywhere I roam,

Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows.

weary,

Far from de old folks at home!

MASSA'S IN DE COLD GROUND

ROUND de meadows am a-ringing
De darkeys' mournful song,
While de mocking-bird am singing,
Happy as de day am long.
Where do ivy am a-creeping,
O'er de grassy mound,
Dere old massa am a-sleeping,
Sleeping in de cold, cold ground.

Down in de corn-field

Hear dat mournful sound:
All de darkeys am a-weeping,
Massa 's in de cold, cold ground.

When de autumn leaves were falling,
When de days were cold,
'Twas hard to hear old massa calling,
Cayse he was so weak and old.

SEGOVIA AND MADRID

IT sings to me in sunshine,
It whispers all day long,
My heartache like an echo
Repeats the wistful song:
Only a quaint old love-lilt,
Wherein my life is hid, —
"My body is in Segovia,
But my soul is in Madrid!"

I dream, and wake, and wonder,
For dream and day are one,
Alight with vanished faces,
And days forever done.

They smile and shine around me
As long ago they did;
For my body is in Segovia,
But

my soul is in Madrid!

Through inland hills and forests
I hear the ocean breeze,
The creak of straining cordage,
The rush of mighty seas,
The lift of angry billows
Through which a swift keel slid;
For my body is in Segovia,
But my soul is in Madrid.

O fair-haired little darlings
Who bore my heart away!
A wide and woful ocean
Between us roars to-day;
Yet am I close beside you
Though time and space forbid;
My body is in Segovia,
But
my soul is in Madrid.

If I were once in heaven,
There would be no more sea;
My heart would cease to wander,
My sorrows cense to be;
My sad eyes sleep forever,
In dust and daisies hid,
And my body leave Segovia.
Would my soul forget Madrid ?

ARACHNE

I WATCH her in the corner there, As, restless, bold, and unafraid, She slips and floats along the air Till all her subtile house is made.

Her home, her bed, her daily food, All from that hidden store she draws;

She fashions it and knows it good,
By instinct's strong and sacred laws.

No tenuous threads to weave her nest,
She seeks and gathers there or here;
But spins it from her faithful breast,
Renewing still, till leaves are sere.

Then, worn with toil, and tired of life,
In vain her shining traps are set.
Her frost hath hushed the insect strife
And gilded flies her charm forget.

But swinging in the snares she spun,
She sways to every wintry wind:
Her joy, her toil, her errand done,
Her corse the sport of storms unkind.

Poor sister of the spinster clan!
I too from out my store within
My daily life and living plan,
My home, my rest, my pleasure spin.

I know thy heart when heartless hands
Sweep all that hard-earned web away:
Destroy its pearled and glittering bands,
And leave thee homeless by the way.

I know thy peace when all is done.
Each anchored thread, each tiny kuot,
Soft shining in the autumn sun;
A sheltered, silent, tranquil lot.

Looks be behind them ? Ah have a care! "Here is a finer."

The chamber is there!

Fair spreads the banquet,
Rich the array;
See the bright torches
Mimicking day;
When harp and viol
Thrill the soft air,
Comes a light whisper:
The chamber is there!

Marble and painting,
Jasper and gold,
Purple from Tyrus,
Fold upon fold,
Blossoms and jewels,
Thy palace prepare:
Pale grows the monarch;
The chamber is there!

Once it was open
As shore to the sea;
White were the turrets,
Goodly to see;

All through the casements
Flowed the sweet air;
Now it is darkness;
The chamber is there!

Silence and horror
Brood on the walls;
Through every crevice
A little voice calls:
"Quicken, mad footsteps,
On pavement and stair;
Look not behind thee,
The chamber is there!"

Out of the gateway,
Through the wide world,
Into the tempest
Beaten and hurled,
Vain is thy wandering,
Sure thy despair,
Flying or staying,
The chamber is there!

LISE

If I were a cloud in heaven, I would hang over thee;

If I were a star of even,

I'd rise and set for thee; For love, life, light, were given Thy ministers to be.

If I were a wind's low laughter,
I'd kiss thy hair;
Or a sunbeam coming after,

Lie on thy forehead fair;

For the world and its wide hereafter
Have nought with thee to compare.

If I were a fountain leaping,
Thy name should be

The burden of my sweet weeping;
If I were a bec,

My honeyed treasures keeping,
T were all for thee!

There's never a tided ocean

Without a shore;

Nor a leaf whose downward motion

No dews deplore;

And I dream that my devotion

May move thee to sigh once more.

DONE FOR

A WEEK ago to-day, when red-haired Sally Down to the sugar-camp came to see me, I saw her checked frock coming down the valley,

Far as anybody's eyes could see. Now I sit before the camp-fire,

And I can't see the pine-knots blaze, Nor Sally's pretty face a-shining,.

Though I hear the good words she says.

A week ago to-night I was tired and lonely,
Sally was gone back to Mason's fort,
And the boys by the sugar-kettles left me
only;

They were hunting coons for sport.
By there snaked a painted Pawnee,

I was asleep before the fire;

Hle creased my two eyes with his hatchet, And scalped me to his heart's desire.

There they found me on the dry tussocks lying,

Bloody and cold as a live man could be; A hoot-owl on the branches overhead was crying,

Crying murder to the red Pawnee.

They brought me to the camp-fire,

They washed me in the sweet white spring;

But my eyes were full of flashes,
And all night my ears would sing.

I thought I was a hunter on the prairie,
But they saved me for an old blind dog;
When the hunting-grounds are cool and
airy,

I shall lie here like a helpless log. I can't ride the little wiry pony,

That scrambles over hills high and low; I can't set my traps for the cony, Or bring down the black buffalo.

I'm no better than a rusty, bursted rifle, And I don't see signs of any other trail; Here by the camp-fire blaze I lie and stifle, And hear Jim fill the kettles with his pail. It's no use groaning. I like Sally,

But a Digger squaw would n't have me! I wish they had n't found me in the valley,— It's twice dead not to see!

IN VAIN

PUT every tiny robe away!
The stitches all were set with tears,
Slow, tender drops of joys; to-day
Their rain would wither hopes or fears:
Bitter enough to daunt the moth
That longs to fret this dainty cloth.

The filmy lace, the ribbons blue,
The tracery deft of flower and leaf,
The fairy shapes that bloomed and grow
Through happy moments all too brief.
The warm, soft wraps. O God! how cold
It must be in that wintry mould !

Fold carefully the broidered wool:
Its silken wreaths will ne'er grow old,
And lay the linen soft and cool
Above it gently, fold on fold.
So lie the snows on that soft breast,
Where mortal garb will never rest.

How many days in dreamed delight,
With listless fingers, working slow,
I fashioned them from morn till night
And smiled to see them slowly grow.
I thought the task too late begun;
Alas! how soon it all was done!