In his hand the woodman's hatchet,

By his side the knife and twine, There he cut and bound the fagots

From the gnarled and stunted pine.

Well the monarch knew the hermit,
For his pious works and cares,
And the wonders which had followed
On his vigils, fasts, and prayers.

Much he marvelled now to see him
Toiling there, with axe and cord,
And he cried in scorn, "O Father'!
Is it thus you serve the LORD ?" ·

But the hermit, resting neither
Hand nor hatchet, meekly said-
"He who does no daily labour
May not ask for daily bread. "

"Think not that my graces slumber
While I toil throughout the day,
For all honest work is worship,
And to labour is to pray.

"Think not that the heavenly blessing From the workman's hand removes ;

Who does best his task appointed,
Him the Master most approves."

While he spoke, the hermit, pausing
For a moment, raised his eyes
Where the overhanging branches
Swayed beneath the sunset skies.

Through the dense and vaulted forest
Straight the level sunbeam came,
Shining like a golden rafter

Poised upon a sculptured frame.

Suddenly, with kindling features,
While he breathes a silent prayer,
See, the hermit throws his hatchet
Lightly upward in the air.

Bright the well-worn steel is gleaming
As it flashes through the shade,
And, descending, lo! the sunbeam
Holds it dangling by the blade!

"See, my son," exclaimed the hermit,
66 See the token sent from heaven!
Thus to humble, patient effort,

Faith's miraculous aid is given.

"Toiling, hoping, often fainting, As we labour, Love divine

Through the shadows pours its sunlight. Crowns the work-vouchsafes the sign.'

Homeward slowly went the monarch,
Till he reached his palace hall,
Where he strode among his warriors,
He the bravest of them all.

Soon the Benedictine Abbey

Rose beside the hermit's cell;

He, by royal hands invested,

Ruled as Abbot long and well.

Now, beside the rushing Danube,
Still its ruined walls remain,
Telling of the hermit's patience,
And the zeal of CHARLEMAGNE.

William Winter.

ORGIA.

HO cares for nothing, alone is free—

WHO

(Sit down, good fellow, and drink with me).

With a careless heart and a merry eye,

He will laugh at the world as the world goes by.

He laughs at power, and wealth, and fame:
He laughs at virtue-he laughs at shame.

He laughs at hope, and he laughs at fear;
At Memory's dead leaves, crisp and sere.
He laughs at the future, cold and dim-
Nor earth nor heaven is dear to him.

Oh, that is the comrade fit for me!
He cares for nothing-his soul is free!
Free as the soul of the fragrant wine;
Sit down, good fellow, my heart is thin.
For I heed not custom, creed, nor law:
I care for nothing that ever I saw.

In every city my cups I quaff;

And over my liquor I riot and laugh,

I laugh like the cruel and turbulent wave,

I laugh in the church and I laugh at the grave.
I laugh at joy, and well I know

That I merrily, merrily laugh at woe.

I terribly laugh, with an oath and a sneer,
When I think that the hour of death is near.
For I know that Death is a guest, divine,
Who shall drink my blood as I drink this wine.

And he cares for nothing! a king is he!
Come on, old fellow, and drink with me!

With you I will drink to the solemn Past,
Though the cup that I drain should be my last.

I will drink to the phantoms of Love and Truth; To ruined manhood and wasted youth.

I will drink to the woman who wrought my woe In the diamond morning of long ago.

To a heavenly face in sweet repose!

To the lily's snow and the blood of the rose!

To the splendour caught from Orient skies,
That thrilled in the dark of her hazel eyes;

Her large eyes, wild with the fire of the South; And the dewy wine of her warm, red mouth!

I will drink to the shadow of coming doom!
To the phantoms that wait in my lonely tomb!

I will drink to my soul, in its terrible mood,
Dimly and solemnly understood.

And, last of all, to the Monarch of Sin,

Who has conquered that palace and reigns within!

My song is passing; it dies away;

I cannot tell is it night or day. . . .

My heart is burnt and blackened with pain,
And a horrible darkness crushes my brain. . . .

I cannot see you—the end is nigh—
But we'll laugh together before I die!

Through awful chasms I plunge and fall:
Your hand, good fellow !—I die—that's all!

BESIDE THE SEA.

L

HEY walked beside the Summer sea,

THEY

And watched the slowly dying sun;
"And oh," she said, "come back to me,
My love, my dear, my only one !"
But while he kissed her fears away,

The gentle waters kissed the shore,

And, sadly whispering, seemed to say,

"He'll come no more! he'll come no more!"

II.

Alone beside the Autumn sea

She watched the sombre death of day;

"And oh," she said, "remember me

And love me, darling, far away!"