186

.

.

.

.

.

Norway, Shooting in
728 Somersetshire Valley, A

116
Napier, Charles James
755 Sparrow, The English

158

Stars, The Colors of the
ORIGINALITY, The Decay of
401 Summer, The Coming of

313
Oakham Pastures, In

590 Seismometry and Engineering in Rela-
Old Men, by One of Them,

628 tion to the Japanese Earthquakes, 443
Spite,

447
PERSIAN Desert, The Great, A March Saracen and Gothic Architeciure, :

476
through
57 Saint-Pierre, de, Bernardin

479
Paris, Excursion to: Autumn, 1851, 77, 236 Smollett in the South,

507
Pepys's Diary, Unpublished Pages of 172 Sharing Trip, A, in Ilolland,

697
Pearlin' Jean,
209 Sir Michael,

788
Pris,

272
Pamirs, the, The Russians on

323 THACKERAY's Portraits of Himself, 125
Pets, Possible
572 Turenne,

152
Pleasure,

643 Tall Girls,
" Pitt," Lord Rosebery's

680 Tea, Brick
Pitt, The Greatness of .
707 Trim Exploit, A

393
Poets, Our Minor .
740 Terror, the Reign of, Women in

606
Paganiniana,
760 Teck, The Dukes of

764
QUEEN's Servant, A, in Carglen, . 715 VANITY, The Food of

191
Vicar's Secret, The

523
REALISM and Romance, English

131
Russians, The, on the Pamirs,
323 WENTWORTH, Lady

180
Rome, New, Impressions of .
451 Will, the, The Ossification of

567
Rosebery's “ Pitt: a Chapter of Rem.
iniscences,

680 YEOMEN, The, of the Guard,

Yangtze-Kiang, the, Twelve Hundred
SILENCE, A Temple of .

Miles on

406
Simian Point of View, From a

53

188
318

.

.

381

36

VII

his crew,

HARPFORD WOOD.

Ah no! 'tis no Illyrian woodland here,

No human voice was that whic, sounded “Sub tegmine fagi."

then, Now the bright noon lies heavy on the

'Twas but some cushat's moan, low-toned earth,

and clear, Now the tired world has drooped her eyes

Among the tangled hollies down the glen. in rest.

These glades knew nought of Pan and all
The birds, all hushed their morning songs
of mirth,

Nor ever soundeth here Apollo's lute,
Sit silent in the shade with ruffled breast. But when the spring bedecks the trees
The far-off moor is wrapped in purple haze, anew,

Here tbrostles and the mellow black-
No passing zephyr stirs the golden corn,

bird's flute, That yellowing ever through hot autumn days

And never all day long the chiffchaff's voice Stands waiting, till on creaking wain up

is mute. borne Its gathered sheaves are piled on some bright But now the sun is sinking to his rest, harvest morn.

And long dark shadows lie along the

sward. But here the woodland ways are full of

A Aush of golden glory fills the west, shade

Bright as some Eastern monarch's treasWith cushions of deep moss and hanging

ure-hoard. ferns,

Farewelll ye darkening glades of dreaming And all the banks are trimmed with ivy

trees, braid

Where all the busy world is out of sight, Starred with pale flowers, that never sun

Where no sound startles save the summer beam burns.

breeze Huge branching beech-trunks tinged with

That stirs the topmost leaves with touches silvery grey

light — Uphold a canopy of whispering leaves;

Farewell! I leave you now to silence and the And down the dell, drenching the ferns

night.

S. CORNISH WATKINS. Leaps a swift stream, while round its Longman's Magazine.

edges cleaves Full many a flower whose scent fills all the

with spray,

summer eaves.

in

At such a time as this, perchance, there

AUTUMN'S TALE. still

Tell us your grievance, meek autumnal day, Might come some leaf-crowned Dryad That breathed erewhile the scentful, bloomy down the dell,

air !
Or shining Oread from the distant hill Doth not the Summer still beside you stay,

To lave her locks in yonder limpid well; To nurse you with a sister's homely care?
Or some bright-eyed Bacchante to refresh If sunshine pour on you a fainter smile
The drooping vine-leaves on her thyrsus a sky fills up your empty boughs in masses;
bound,

Is it to further bronze the verdurous pile
And twine anew the withered ivy-mesh And scatter new death-tokens as it passes?
With which the masses of her hair were The lingering Summer that, with childlike
crowned,

daring,
And wonder at the hush in all the woods Returns to play, the insidious poison breathes,
around.

Unconsciously the day of danger sharing,

The leaves wind-tossed in mortuary wreaths ! Hark! even now I seem to hear her cry,

So is your tale but little given to cheer “ Where art thou, Bacchus, and thy

Meinorial of another dying year.

Academy.
merry train ?

Thos. GORDON HAKE.
Why is there nought but echo to reply
Whose lone voice answers mine when I

complain?
Where are the nymphs and fauns, once

HARVEST THOUGHTS In shady glades and round the babbling Can the crushed grape foresee the wine, streams?

Or grain between the millstones tell The sunlight shines through these green All it will be, a food divine, leaves as sweet

A daily bread? And we, ah, well! As in time past, but all this forest seems May we not be like them at least, Spell-bound, like some strange world seen in A portion of the Master's feast? uneasy dreams."

Academy. BEATRIX L. TOLLEMACHE.

wont to meet