In terror she cried, letting sink her
Parasol till it trailed in the dust,-
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Parasol till it trailed in the dust,—
Till it sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

Then I pacified Mary and kissed her,
And tempted her into the room,
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,

But were stopped by the warning of doom,-
By some words that were warning of doom.
And I said, "What is written, sweet sister,
At the opposite end of the room?"
She sobbed, as she answered, "All liquors
Must be paid for ere leaving the room."

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober,
As the streets were deserted and e ar,-
For my pockets were empty and drear;
And I cried, "It was surely October,
On this very night of last year,

That I journeyed—I journeyed down here,—
That I brought a fair maiden down here,
On this night of all nights in the year.
Ah! to me that inscription is clear;
Well I know now, I'm perfectly sober,

Why no longer they credit me here,Well I know now that music of Auber,

And this Nightingale, kept by one Shear.

North Beach.

(AFTER SPENSER.)

Lo! where the castle of bold Pfeiffer throws
Its sullen shadow on the rolling tide,-

No more the home where joy and wealth repose,
But now where wassailers in cells abide;
See yon long quay that stretches far and wide,
Well known to citizens as wharf of Meiggs;
There each sweet Sabbath walks in maiden pride
Then pensive Margaret, and brave Pat, whose legs
Encased in broadcloth oft keep time with Peg's.

Here cometh oft the tender nursery-maid,
While in her ear her love his tale doth pour;
Meantime her infant doth her charge evade,
And rambleth sagely on the sandy shore,
Till the sly sea-crab, low in ambush laid,
Seizeth his leg and biteth him full sore.

Ah me! what sounds the shuddering echoes bore
When his small treble mixed with Ocean's roar.

Hard by there stands an ancient hostelrie,
And at its side a garden, where the bear,
The stealthy catamount, and coon agree
To work deceit on all who gather there;
And when Augusta-that unconscious fair-
With nuts and apples plieth Bruin free,
Lo! the green parrot claweth her back hair,
And the grey monkey grabbeth fruits that she

On her gay bonnet wears, and laugheth loud in glee!

The Lost Tails of Miletus.

HIGH on the Thracian hills, half hid in the billows of clover, Thyme, and the asphodel blooms, and lulled by Pactolian streamlet,

She of Miletus lay, and beside her an aged satyr

Scratched his ear with his hoof, and playfully mumbled his chestnuts.

Vainly the Manid and the Bassarid gambolled about her, The free-eyed Bacchante sang, and Pan-the renowned, the accomplished

Executed his difficult solo. In vain were their gambols and dances:

High o'er the Thracian hills rose the voice of the shepherdess, wailing.

"Ai! for the fleecy flocks,-the meek-nosed, the passionless

faces;

Ai! for the tallow-scented, the straight-tailed, the high

stepping;

Ai! for the timid glance, which is that which the rustic, sagacious,

Applies to him who loves but may not declare his passion!"

Her then Zeus answered slow: "O daughter of song and

sorrow,

Hapless tender of sheep,-arise from thy long lamentation! Since thou canst not trust fate, nor behave as becomes a Greek maiden,

Look and behold thy sheep."-And lo! they returned to her tailless !

The Ritualist.

BY A COMMUNICANT OF "ST. JAMES'S."

He wore, I think, a chasuble, the day when first we met; A stole and snowy alb likewise: I recollect it yet.

He called me " daughter," as he raised his jewelled hand to

bless;

And then, in thrilling undertones, he asked, "Would I confess ? "

O mother dear! blame not your child, if then on bended knees

I dropped, and thought of Abélard, and also Eloise;

Or when, beside the altar high, he bowed before the pyx, I envied that seraphic kiss he gave the crucifix.

The cruel world may think it wrong, perhaps may deem me weak,

And, speaking of that sainted man, may call his conduct "cheek;"

And, like that wicked barrister whom Cousin Harry quotes, May term his mixèd chalice "grog," his vestments "petticoats: "

But, whatsoe'er they do or say, I'll build a Christian's hope On incense and on altar-lights, on chasuble and cope. Let others prove, by precedent, the faith that they profess: "His can't be wrong" that's symbolised by such becoming dress.