When the echoes shout through the snowy world, And the pines are borne away.

With their pikes and massy clubs they brake

The cuirass and the shield,

And the war-horse dash'd to the reddening lake
From the reapers of the field!

The field-but not of sheaves:
Proud crests and pennons lay,

Strewn o'er it thick as the birchwood leaves
In the autumn tempest's way.

ROMAN GIRL'S SONG.

ROME, Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been!

On thy seven hills of yore

Thou sat'st a queen.

Thou had'st thy triumphs then
Purpling the street,
Leaders and sceptered men

Bow'd at thy feet.

They that thy mantle wore

As gods were seen

Rome, Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been!

Rome! thine imperial brow

Never shall rise;

What hast thou left thee now?

Thou hast thy skies!

Blue, deeply blue, they are,

Gloriously bright!

Veiling thy wastes afar

With coloured light.

Many a solemn hymn,

By starlight sung,

Sweeps through the arches dí

Thy wrecks among.

Thou hast fair forms that move

With queenly tread;

Thou hast proud fanes above

Thy mighty dead.

Yet wears thy Tiber's shore

A mournful mien;

Rome, Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been!

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD

THEY grew in beauty side by side,
They filled one home with glee,
Their graves are severed far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow,
She had each folded flower in sight--
Where are those dreamers now?

One, 'midst the forest of the west,
By a dark stream is laid,

The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar-shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep:
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are drest
Above the noble slain;

He wrapt his colours round his breast
On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one, o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves by soft winds fann'd;
She faded 'midst Italian flowers,
The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who played
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around one parent knee.

They that with smiles lit up the hall,

And cheer'd with song the hearth!

Alas, for love! if thou wert all

And nought beyond, O earth!

William Cullen Bryant. {Bea 1378.

Born 1794
Died

AN American poet, son of a physician in Massachusetts. He was born there on 3d November 1794. Bryant, so early as at ten years of age, published translations of the Latin poets; and at thirteen he wrote the "Embargo," famous in its day. He was intended for the bar, but he was so much interested in literary pursuits, that after a short trial he abandoned the law, and became successively editor of several New York papers, to which he contributed pieces of his poetry, some of which are exceedingly beautiful. In 1832 he published a collected edition of his poems. In 1834 he made the tour of Europe. His poems are only moderately appreciated in this country.

THE INDIAN AT THE BURYING-PLACE OF HIS

FATHERS.

IT is the spot I came to seek

My fathers' ancient burial-place,
Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak,
Withdrew our wasted race.

It is the spot-I know it well

Of which our old traditions tell.

For here the upland bank sends out
A ridge towards the river-side;
I know the shaggy hills about,

The meadows smooth and wide;
The plains that, towards the eastern sky
Fenced east and west by mountains lie.

A white man, gazing on the scene,
Would say a lovely spot was here,
And praise the lawns so fresh and green,
Between the hills so sheer.

I like it not-I would the plain
Lay in its tall old groves again.

The sheep are on the slopes around,
The cattle in the meadows feed,
And labourers turn the crumbling ground
Or drop the yellow seed,

And prancing steeds, in trappings gay,
Whirl the bright chariot o'er the way.

Methinks it were a nobler sight

To see these vales in woods array'd.
Their summits in the golden light,
Their trunks in grateful shade;
And herds of deer, that bounding go
O'er rills and prostrate trees below.

And then to mark the lord of all,

The forest hero, train'd to wars,
Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall,
And seam'd with glorious scars,
Walk forth, amid his train, to dare
The wolf, and grapple with the bear.

This bank, in which the dead were laid,
Was sacred when its soil was ours,
Hither the artless Indian maid

Brought wreaths of beads and flowers,
And the gray chief and gifted seer,
Worshipped the God of thunders here.

John Keats.

Born 1795

Died 1820.

October 29, He rather he pub

Was born in London, where his father kept a livery stable, 1795. In his fifteenth year he was apprenticed to a surgeon. neglected his profession for literary pursuits; and in 1817 ished, under the auspices of Leigh Hunt, a volume of poems. In 1818 he issued another piece, "Endymion," a poetical romance. It was criticised rather severely in the "Quarterly Review," and the effects were felt deeply throughout the rest of his short life. He profited, however, by the hints given him, and produced "Hyperion," a work every way superior to anything he had yet written, and of which Byron spoke with rapture. Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St Agnes, &c.," was issued in 1820, and added yet to his fame. But hereditary consumption had become developed in his system, and he was advised to try the soft breezes of Italy, where he arrived in November 1820. He lingered on without hope or even desire of amendment, and died on 27th December of the same year. He was buried in the Protestant burying-ground at Rome, near the monument of Caius Cestus.

FROM "HYPERION."

DEEP in the shady sadness of a vale,

Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star,
Sat gray-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone,
Still as the silence round about his lair;

Forest on forest hung about his head
Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there,
Not so much life as on a summer's day

Robs one light seed from the feather'd grass,
But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more
By reason of his fallen divinity

Spreading a shade: the Naiad 'mid her reeds
Press'd her cold finger closer to her lips.

Along the margin sand large footmarks went
No further than to where his feet had stray'd,
And slept there since. Upon the sodden ground
His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead,
Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were closed;
While his bow'd head seem'd listening to the earth,
His ancient mother, for some comfort yet.

It seem'd no force could wake him from his place; But there came one, who, with a kindred hand, Touch'd his wide shoulders, after bending low With reverence, though to one who knew it not. She was a goddess of the infant world;

By her in stature the tall Amazon

Had stood a pigmy's height: she would have ta'en
Achilles by the hair, and bent his neck;

Or with a finger stay'd Ixion's wheel.

Her face was large as that of Memphian sphinx ̧
Pedestal'd haply in a palace court,
When sages look'd to Egypt for their lore.
But oh! how unlike marble was that face!
How beautiful, if sorrow had not made
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self!
There was a listening fear in her regard,
As if calamity had but begun;
As if the vanward clouds of evil days
Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear
Was, with its storèd thunder, labouring up.

AUTUMN.

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,