as the French say which fill the columns of too many of our contemporaries. The engravings are somewhat rough, and here and there badly drawn; but the spirit of them is always good and honest, a feeling of love for the sufferers, and deep sympathy for the Russian people. The Russian mind is naturally inclined to melancholy and despondency, and we find also signs of that regrettable national characteristic. A Russian peasant scratching his ear, after the invariable habit of his kind when embarrassed, stands before a post on which is written: "If you go to the right you'll lose your horse; if you go to the left you'll lose yourself." The peasant says, "Fog everywhere; I really don't know whether I am to go to the right or to the left." The corresponding picture to this cartoon explains it: right and left are seen two heads of a Slav(ian)ophile and a Europophile; each calls upon the peasant to follow him, but the peasant, sitting at the foot of a tree, drinks his vodka: "I will lie down and sleep here." We do not believe that the Russian people will go to sleep, wavering between the two impulses which are endeavoring to lead it towards two totally different ideals. The real Russian is original enough and sensible enough to be able to find out the way most likely to suit him best. Far from despairing, we think he is preparing for a new and rapid movement forward. Self-conscious public opinion is awaking on her miserable bed: "I have slept long. and I am so stupid What strange fancies have passed through my head! Is it a dream still?" Enormous packages with the words: "Public Questions are drawn by a tortoise and a lobster. This is to show how public business and reform go on at the present time. When embezzlements of public money and frauds are discovered every day, the following cartoon is appropriate: A wretched, hungry-looking begbar steals a loaf - it is neblagovidnoe (an untranslatable word, something like not respectable). A well-dressed gentleman, with a heavy gold chain, fills his pocket with public or government money it is blagoirdnoe (respectable). All the cartoons are inspired by that instinctive misanthropy so inherent in the Russian genius, but as they are all the true expressions of the present condition of the people, let us hope the paper will do good. The only thing to be wished for is greater finish in the engraving and more care in the draughtsmanship; as to the letterpress, it leaves nothing to be desired.

still.

...

There's

Flooding the world with its splendor,
And gladdening all creation.
And Day-Day-Day, has begun.

a rustle through leagues of forestthe ocean stirs, Quivering with joy and light. The last star swoons and dies-only the firs, And the sombre cedars, and cypresses tall,

Solemn, dark, and funereal,
Remember the vanished night.

Day and life return-and the earth rejoices,
The air is alive with a murmur of busy voices;
There's the low of a myriad herds,

Feeding on endless meadows,
There's the joy of a myriad birds,
Darting through leafy shadows,
There's the quiver of endless leaves,
That gleam at the day's returning,
And the breath of a world of flowers

The thin grey column of rising smoke,

Is stealing silently.

1

The jar of the world of men begins,
The reaper and sower afield are going,
The busy factory clacks and dins,
The mill-wheel over its sluices whirls,
Shattered in spray of diamond and
pearls,

The torrents overflowing.

There's a ring of wagons on valley and hill,

From a thousand farms with clarion shrill,

The strutting cock is crowing. There is neighing and barking, and bleating and lowing,

Chirp and chatter, and stir and clatter, And an infinite humming and whirring,For the throbbing world is alive again, And its pulse is beating in every vein

With the strength of a mighty stirring; Night with its shadows of death is done. The great new wondrous day has begun, And mountains and valleys, and seas and strands,

Forests and rivers and torrents free,
Startled, arouse and clap their hands,
The glad new miracle to see,

And shout, "The Sun! The Sun!"
All the world is alive and waking
To hail the great new day that is breaking.
Sharp through the Western forest's tangled

And shake the earth as they rouse. From seething Sumatra and tropic Madagascar, From Borneo's groves of spice,

To the glacial fields where the white bear basks and souses

And blunders along the ice,

From the sultry Indian Sea to the cold Atlantic,

As on thy glory comes,

From the orient chambers of thy early rising,
O'er Europe's plains and homes,
From the Himalayas on to the Alps, and on-
ward

To the Rocky Mountains, that rise
O'er the fair Pacific, peak to peak out-calling,
Flushed as the glad news flies,

Hail thee, O glorious Sun! all the earth hails thee,

And the stir and the strife and the strain Of living begins, and the world that was sleeping and dreaming

Rouses and quivers again.

Let trumpet and pipe and voice and song,
Echo unto the skies!

Let chorus and hymn thy praise prolong,
O glorious Sun! that comest again
With thy ever-new surprise.

O splendor of earth and life that give
Joy and beauty to all that live

And daily the world renews,

O fountain of light and color that flings O'er the darkest and dullest of earthly things

Thy glad transfiguring hues,

O glory of earth and sea and sky,
Life of a myriad worlds on high,
Soul of the universe, light of its eye,
Who shall his voice refuse,

To swell the chorus that evermore
Is shouted from flashing peaks that dare
The cold thin depths of the breathless air
Thy earliest glance to see,-
To the crawling foam that fringes the
shore

Murmuring impatiently?

From the tremulous forest that uplifts

Its listening tops, while the morning breeze

With its news from afar with a whisper sifts,

And thy glorious coming promises
To the humblest of weeds and grasses low,
Where the clear cool stream with a mur.
murous flow,

Is talking and running to catch a sight
Of thy first sweet gleam of morning light,
To tell unto all below.

All, all are joining with one glad tone,
All, all are chanting their song as one,
From the bass of the thunderous avalanche

And the cataract's dizzy booming; To the whisper fine of the quivering breeze That hurries through myriad leagues of trees,

And the insects' infinite humming. The Sun! The Sun! The Sun-The King!

The King of the World is coming!
Fling forth your banners-shout and sing,
Until the whole wide universe ring
With a vast and joyous welcoming,

For the King, the King is coming!
W. W. S.

MOON-RISE.

NIGHT, beloved night!

She is coming-she soon will come; Slowly is paling the dying light, Twilight has lost its bloom,

And a serious hush steals silently
Over the shadowy Earth,
While faint in the delicate air on high
The first new star has birth.

Against the twilight, their shoulders bare,
The mountains are turning as to sleep;
And one by one from their chambers deep,
Where from the peering search they hid
Of the day's rude gaze and opened lid,
A myriad worlds come forth.

The riotous day is gone With his cymbals clashing, his bright spears flashing,

His tumult and rout, his Bacchanal's shout, His gladness and madness, and laughter and raving,

His banners and thyrsi and coronals waving ; And his chorus and dances and singing are done,

Gleam far and bright, -
They are waiting the coming of the moon,
The Regent of the Night.

Nor long they await-for look, serene
Above the hills revealed,

Large and majestic in her mien,
Into the clear expectant sky

She lifts her gleaming shield

And with a pensive peaceful grace

Takes queenlike there her silent place,
And looks o'er all the enchanted world
With calm pathetic face.
All own her gentle influence,

So tender, so intense;
And over all a breath of prayer
Floats like a feeling through the air,
And soothes the soul and sense.

Along the river's course the slow mists cling, As murmuring on it swells.

In the dark grass a myriad grilli ring
Their chimes of tiny bells.

From rugged mountain-steeps that dark and bare,

Shrouded in shadow dream,

Voices of white cascades, whose veils out

stream

And hang upon the air,

Chant to the night their praises as they go
To join the torrent hurrying hoarse below
O'er its grey boulders tossed.

The soft wind whispering sings its mountain song

As slow it drives the low white clouds along, Or murmurs through the black platoons of pines,

Whose serried ranks together push Their tall uplifted spears, and rush Up the sheer sides of Alps and Apennines, Or tremulous breathes o'er many a peaceful slope

Of gracious Italy, Where in festoons the swaying vineyards droop, And the grey olives up the hillsides troop, A ghostly company,

Pallid and faint, as they had only known The moon for friend, and in its light had grown.

deep

For heart to bear.

All sleep! The tired world sleeps!

A quiet infinite

The soul of man and nature steeps,

And smoothes the brow of night. The weary ox lays off his yoke, — The dog hunts in his dream alone,The woodman wields no more his stroke,The beggar, 'neath his ragged cloak,

On the cold pavement thrown,

No longer heeds the world's dark frown No longer hungers, racked with pains, But roams along Elysian plains

And wears a monarch's crown.
A myriad mortals lay their head
Upon oblivion's poppied bed,

By peaceful slumber blest,
And all day's busy toils and cares,

And all the hard world's strain and stress,
And all its tortuous snarls and snares
Are lifted from their breast,
As lapped in calm unconsciousness
They sleep-they rest.

But Love awakes: O silent moon,
Upon how many a happy pair
That breathe this silvery tranquil air,
Serene thou lookest down!
As wandering, blest by Life's best boon,
Through many a lane and shadowy grove
They lingering talk, or pausing.dream,
And strive to tell their love;

While following them, now bright now dim,

The listening stars above
Through the o'erhanging tree-tops swim
And with them pause, or move.
Their bliss intense, their thrill of sense
That words can never half express,
Thou seest as they wander on,
His clasping arm around her thrown,
She trembling in his fond caress,
And all the air is still to hear,

And all the heavens above,
The sweet low broken utterances,
The silences of Love.

And thou-what answerest thou, O night,
O boundless tremulous air,
O moon, O stars, to that wild cry,
To that impassioned prayer?
Nothing! In calm serenity,
Unmoved thou standest there,
Deaf-silent-cold and pitiless
To all we have to bear.

No! no! the tears of passion past,
Thou givest us thy boon at last.
Thou sayest, "Come to me and weep;"
Thou givest thy beloved sleep;
Thou summonest again the form
That death hath snatched away,

The glad lost voice, the body warm,
The animate dear clay,

The dream at least of all that was
Denied to us by day.

O Night of grand repose!
O silent serious Night!
Beside thy pathos infinite

How vain are Daylight's shows!
Thine is the grand dim realm of dream,
Thine the mysterious power whose spell
Leads Fancy on beyond the extreme

Of this world's possible.

Thine the soft touch that charms the wak

ing sense,

And woos the troubled soul to confidence.
To thee our secret woes we tell,
To thee our inmost being bare,
With thee our deepest feelings share,
Mother divine, ineffable.

Our hopes, our loves, that in the pride
Of busy daylight are repressed-
Our doubts, remorses, hidden fears,

That gnaw within the breast;
To thee, great mother, we confide
And on thy bosom shed our tears,
As thy great arms thou openest wide
To give us rest.

O Night, a secret prophecy

Thou whisperest beneath thy breath
Of that vast dim infinity,

Where broods the silent shadow-
Death.

Listening I seem to hear thee say, —
"As I from out the body steal
For few brief hours the soul away,
My passing dream-world to reveal;
So my dark Brother, when your eyes
He in his endless sleep shall close,
Shall bear you-far beyond the woes
Of this short life-to the repose
Of an eternal Paradise."
Vallombrosa.

W. W. S.