As the scorino rivers that roll, As the lavas that restlessly roll Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek In the ultimate climes of the pole, That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek

In the realms of the boreal pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober, But our thoughts they were palsied and sere,

Our memories were treacherous and sere,

For we knew not the mouth was October,

And we marked not the night of the year,

(Ah, night of all nights in the year!) We noted not the dim lake of Auber

(Though once we had journeyed down here),

Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent

And star-dials pointed to morn, As the star-dials hinted of moru, At the end of our path a liquescent

And nebulous lustre was born, Out of which a miraculous crescent Arose with a duplicate horn, Astarte's bediamonded crescent

Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said "She is warmer than Dian:
She rolls through an ether of sighs,
She revels in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These checks, wliere the worm never
dics,

And has come past the stars of the Lion
To point us the path to the skies,
To the Lethean peace of the skies:
Come up, in despite of the Lion,

To shine on us with her bright eyes: Come up through the lair of the Lion,

With love in her luminous eyes."

Ah, what demon has tempted me here? Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber, This misty mid region of Weir: Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber, This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."

The sixth; he burst five buttons off,

And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,
I watched that wretched man,
And since, I never dare to write
As funny as I can.

LA GRISETTE

An, Clemence! when I saw thec last
Trip down the Rue de Seine,
And turning, when thy form had past,
I said, "We meet again,”.

I dreamed not in that idle glance
Thy latest image came,

And only left to memory's trance
A shadow and a name.

The few strange words my lips had taught
Thy timid voice to speak,

Their gentler signs, which often brought
Fresh roses to thy cheek,
The trailing of thy long loose hair
Bent o'er my couch of pain,

All, all returned, more sweet, more fair;
Oh, had we met again!

I walked where saint and virgin keep
The vigil lights of Heaven,

I knew that thou hadst woes to weep,
And sins to be forgiven;

I watched where Genevieve was laid,
I knelt by Mary's shrine,
Beside me low, soft voices prayed;
Alas! but where was thine?

And when the morning sun was bright,
When wind and wave were calm,
And flamed, in thousand-tinted light,
The rose of Notre Dame,

I wandered through the haunts of men,
From Boulevard to Quai,
Till, frowning o'er Saint Etienne,
The Pantheon's shadow lay.

In vain, in vain; we meet no more,
Nor dream what fates befall;
And long upon the stranger's shore
My voice on thee may call,

When years have clothed the line in moss
That tells thy name and days,

And withered, on thy simple cross,
The wreaths of Père-la-Chaise !

A Spanish galleon brought the bar,-so runs the ancient tale;

'T was hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail;

And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should fail, He wiped his brow and quaffed a cup of good old Flemish ale.

'Twas purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame,

Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the same;

And oft as on the ancient stock another twig was found,

'Twas filled with caudle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round.

That night, affrighted from his nest, the

screaming eagle flew,

He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo;

And there the sachem learned the rule be taught to kith and kin:

he smells of Hollands gin!"

A hundred years, and fifty more, spread their leaves and snows,

had

A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's nose,

I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer;

I tell you, 't was a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here:

'Tis but the fool that loves excess; hast thou a drunken soul?

Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl!

I love the memory of the past, its pressed yet fragrant flowers,

The moss that clothes its broken walls, the ivy on its towers;

Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed, eyes grow moist and dim,

my

To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim.

Yet on its turf young April sets
Her store of slender violets;

Though all the Gods their garlands shower,
I too may bring one purple flower.
Alas! what blossom shall I bring,
That opens in my Northern spring?
The garden beds have all run wild,
So trim when I was yet a child;
Flat plantains and unseemly stalks
Have crept across the gravel walks;
The vines are dead, long, long ago,
The almond buds no longer blow.
No more upon its mound I see
The azure, plume-bound fleur-de-lis;
Where once the tulips used to show,
In straggling tufts the pansies grow;
The grass has quenched my white-rayed
gem,

The flowering " Star of Bethlehem,"
Though its long blade of glossy green
And pallid stripe may still be seen.
Nature, who treads her nobles down,
And gives their birthright to the clown,
Has sown her base-born weedy things
Above the garden's queens and kings.
Yet one sweet flower of ancient race
Springs in the old familiar place.
When snows were melting down the vale,
And Earth unlaced her icy mail,
And March his stormy trumpet blew,
And tender green came peeping through,
I loved the earliest one to seek
That broke the soil with emerald beak,
And watch the trembling bells so blue
Spread on the column as it grew.

Meek child of earth! thou wilt not shame

The sweet, dead poet's holy name;