Clammy with anguish, wandered low and Forward and backward. But at last she loose O'er their bare breasts, that seemed too filled And her dark head upon her bosom dropped with trouble To feel the damp crawl of the midnight dews That trickled down them. One was bent half double, stopped, Motionless, Then one rose up with a cry To the great moon, and stretched a wrathful arm Of wild expostulation to the sky, A dismayed heap that hung o'er the last Murmuring, "These earth-lamps fail us! and spark Of a lamp slowly dying. As she blew The dull light redder, and the dry wick flew In crumbling sparkles all about the dark, I saw a light of horror in her eyes, what harm? Does not the moon shine? Let us rise and haste To meet the Bridegroom yonder over the waste! For now I seem to catch once more the tone A wild light on her flushed cheek, a wild Of viols on the night. 'Twere better done, white On her dry lips-an agony of surprise Fearfully fair. At worst, to perish near the golden gate, The lamp dropped. From my sight Uncertain ills. Away! the hour is late." She fell into the dark. Beside her sat Again the moon dipped. I could see no more: One without motion, and her stern face Not the least gleam of light did heaven af Some motion of the midnight or her breath There was a ruined beauty hovering there The light grew dim and blear, Then a Voice: "I know you not. De- I caught, within, a glimpse of glory, and Still in darkness dreamed the land. I could not see those women. Not a breath! Darkness and awe-a darkness more than death: About her damp knees, muttering madness, The darkness took them. rocked EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON. 'Lost! lost! lost!" cry floated over the waves Far over the pitiless waves; It smote on the dark and it rended the clouds; On a little mound, Napoleon With neck outthrust-you fancy how- The billows below them were weaving white Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans. shrouds That soar, to earth may fall, Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew Until he reached the mound. Then off there flung in smiling joy, By just his horse's mane, a boy; You hardly could suspect (So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through), You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two. The chief's eye flashed, but presently When her bruised eaglet breathes: Touched to the quick, he said: "I'm killed, sire!" And his chief beside, Smiling, the boy fell dead. ROBERT BROWNING. THE DEATH OF MURAT. "MY But with the regal wealth and state he lost. its heartless chill. The iciness of alien power what gushing love The agony of such an hour as this-thy LAST, "Comrade, though foe, a soldier asks from thee a soldier's aid: They're not a warrior's only tasks that need his blood and blade; That upon which I latest gaze, that which I Y hour is come. Forget me not. When death upon my eyeballs sinks and With you my last, my fondest thought; with This, and these locks around it twined, say, you my heart's adieu. wilt thou see them sent Farewell, farewell, my Caroline, my chil- Need I say where? dren's doting mother! I made thee wife, Fate made thee queen: one hour, and thou art neither. Enough? 'tis kind! To death, then! I'm content. Oh to have found death in the field, not as a chained outlaw! Farewell, my sweet Letitia: my love is with No more! To destiny I yield, with mightier Then, of the locks which, dark and large, Strike to the heart!" His last behest was o'er his broad shoulders hung, That streamed war-pennons in the charge, yet like caressings clung uttered not in vain. He turned full to the levelled tubes that held the wished-for boon; volleyed the platoon. In peace around his forehead high, which He gazed upon the love-clasped pledge: then more than diadem Beseemed the curls that lovingly replaced And when their hold the hands gave up, the the cold hard gem, pitying gazers saw He cut him one for wife, for child: 'twas all In the dear image of a wife thy heart's best he had to will ; trait, Murat. THOMAS ATKINSON. POETRY. F all those arts in which the wise excel, Nature's chief masterpiece is writing well; No writing lifts exalted man so high Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done: Breaks out again, and is by all admired. Number and rhyme and that harmonious sound Which not the nicest ear with harshness wound Are necessary, yet but vulgar arts, As that of Nature moves the world about, Sometimes with powerful charms, to hurry me away From pleasures of the night and business of the day? Ev'n now too far transported, I am fain As all is dulness when the fancy's bad, As shines the moon in clouded skies, She in her poor attire was seen: Where dost thou dwell? what caverns of the One praised her ankles, one her eyes, brain Can such a vast and mighty thing contain? When I at vacant hours in vain thy absence mourn, Oh where dost thou retire? and why dost thou return, One her dark hair and lovesome mien. So sweet a face, such angel grace, In all that land had never been; Cophetua sware a royal oath : This beggar-maid shall be my queen!" ALFRED TENNYSON. THE SUPERANNUATED MAN. F peradventure, reader, it has been thy lot to waste the golden years of thy life, thy shining youth, in the irksome confinement of an office; to have thy prison-days prolonged through middle age down to decrepitude and silver hairs without hope of release or respite; to have lived to forget that there are such things as holidays, or to remember them but as the prerogatives of childhood, then, and then only, will you be able to appreciate my deliverance. It is now six and thirty years since I took my seat at the desk in Mincing Lane. Melancholy was the transition at fourteen from the abundant playtime and the frequently intervening vacations of school-days to the eight, nine, and sometimes ten, hours a day attendance at the counting-house. But time partially reconciles us to anything. I gradually became content-doggedly contented, as wild animals in cages. It is true I had my Sundays to myself; but Sundays, admirable as the institution of them is for purposes of worship, are for that very reason the very worst adapted for days of unbending and recreation. In particular there is a gloom for me attendant upon a city Sunday, a weight in the air. I miss the cheerful cries of London, the music and the ballad-singers, the buzz and stirring murmur of the streets. Those eternal bells depress me. The closed shops repel me. Prints, pictures, all the glittering and endless succession of knacks and gew-gaws and ostentatiously displayed wares of tradesmen which make a weekday saunter through the less busy parts of the metropolis so delightful, are shut out-no bookstalls deliciously to idle over; no busy faces to recreate the idle man who contemplates them ever passing by; the very face of business a charm by contrast to his temporary relaxation from it; nothing to be seen but unhappy countenances--or half happy at best-of emancipated 'prentices and little tradesfolk, with here and there a servant-maid that has got leave to go out, who, slaving all the week, with the habit has lost almost the capacity of enjoying a free hour, and livelily expressing the hollowness of a day's pleasuring. The very strollers in the fields on that day look anything but comfortable. But, besides Sundays, I had a day at Easter and a day at Christmas, with a full week in the summer to go and air myself in my native fields of Hertfordshire. This last was a great indulgence, and the prospect of its recurrence, I believe, alone kept me up through the year and made my durance tolerable. But when the week came around, did the glittering phantom of the distance keep touch with me? or rather was it not a series of seven uneasy days spent in restless pursuit of pleasure and a wearisome anxiety to find out how to make the most of them? Where was the quiet? where the promised rest? Before I had a taste of it, it was vanished. I was at the desk again, counting |