With the splendors of thy smile;
Give the Casar crowns and arches,
Let his brow the laurel twine,
I can scorn the senate's triumphs,
Triumphing in love like thine.

I am dying, Egypt, dying;
Hark! the insulting foeman's cry,
They are coming; quick, my falchion,
Let me front them ere I die.
Ah, no more amid the battle

Shall my heart exulting swell,
Isis and Osiris guard thee,
Cleopatra, Rome, farewell!

-WM. H. LYTLE.

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

The following poem was suggested by a visit to the tomb of Mr. Read at Laurel Hill, Philadelphia.

I STAND within a garden, where the fairest flowers bloom,
And art and nature harmonize, in beauty and perfume;
But, on this mound, a sepulchre its granite tribute rears,
And here I lay a garland, wet with many loving tears.

I mourn for one whose mind was like a many-sided gem
Effulgent with prismatic rays,--a regal diadem:

A friend, whose kindly influence was like the golden light,
Which, at its dawning, dissipates the shadows of the night.

A poet, gifted to evoke weird music from his lyre;

To fill the hearts of listening throngs with patriotic fire;
To draw the aged and the young, enchanted, to his feet,
Inspiring faith, and hope, and love, in accents soft and sweet.

A poet-artist, by whose touch, as on a mirror thrown,
Imagination's fairest forms, in living lines were shown:-
Whose pictures were all poems, full of fancy, grace and thought;
Whose poems were all pictures, with immortal beauty wrought.
-FRANCIS DEHAES JANVIER.

SONG FROM "THE WILD Wagoner of the AlleghANIES."

I.

WHERE sweeps round the mountains

The cloud on the gale,

And streams from their fountains

Leap into the vale,

Like frighted deer leap when

The storm with his pack

Kides over the steep in

The wild torrent's track,-
Even there my free home is;
There watch. I the flocks
Wander white as the foam is

In stairways of rocks.
Secure in the gorge there

In freedom we sing,

And laugh at King George, where
The eagle is king.

II.

I mount the wild horse with

No saddle or rein,

And guide his swift course with
A grasp on his mane;

Through paths steep and narrow,

And scorning the crag,

I chase with my arrow
The flight of the stag.
Through snow-drifts engulfing,
I follow the bear,

And face the gaunt wolf when

He snarls in his lair,

And watch through the gorge there

The red panther spring,

And laugh at King George, where
The eagle is king.

III.

When April is sounding
His horn o'er the hills,
And brooklets are bounding
In joy to the mills,-
When warm August slumbers
Among her green leaves,
And harvest encumbers

Her garners with sheaves,-
When the flail of November
Is swinging with might,
And the miller December

Is mantled with white,-
In field and in forge there
The free-hearted sing,

And laugh at King George, where

The eagle is king.

-T. BUCHANAN READ.

DYING IN HARNESS.

ONLY a fallen horse, stretched out there on the road,
Stretched in the broken shafts, and crushed by the heavy load ;
Only a fallen horse, and a circle of wondering eyes
Watching the 'frighted teamster goading the beast to rise.

Hold! for his toil is over-no more labor for him;

See the poor neck outstretched, and the patient eyes grow dim ; See on the friendly stones how peacefully rests the head-Thinking, if dumb beasts think, how good it is to be dead; After the weary journey, how restful it is to lie

With the broken shafts and the cruel load—waiting only to die.

Watchers, he died in harness-died in the shafts and straps-
Fell, and the burden killed him: one of the day's mishaps―
One of the passing wonders marking the city road—

A toiler dying in harness, heedless of call or goad.

Passers, crowding the pathway, staying your steps awhile,

What is the symbol? Only death—why should we cease to smile
At death for a beast of burden? On, through the busy street
That is ever and ever echoing the tread of the hurrying feet.

What was the sign? A symbol to touch the tireless will?
Does He who taught in parables speak in parables still?
The seed on the rock is wasted-on heedless hearts of men,
That gather and sow and grasp and lose-labor and sleep-and then-
Then for the prize!—a crowd in the street of ever-echoing tread—
The toiler, crushed by the heavy load, is there in his harness-
dead!

-JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.

MARY OF CASTLE CARY.

SAW ye my wee thing? saw ye my ain thing?
Saw ye my true-love down by yon lea?
Crossed she the meadow, yestreen, at the gloaming?
Sought she the burnie, where flowers the haw-tree?

"Her hair it is lint-white; her skin it is milk-white;
Dark is the blue o' her saft-rolling ee!

Red, red her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses;
Where could my wee thing wander frae me?"

“I sawna your wee thing; I sawna your ain thing;
Nor saw I ur true-love down by yon lea;
But I met my bonnie thing late in the gloaming,
Down by the burnie where flowers the haw-tree.

"Her hair it was lint-white; her skin it was milk-white;
Dark was the blue o her saft-rolling ee!

Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses:
Sweet were the kisses that she gae to me."

"It wasna my wee thing; it wasna mine ain thing;
Is wasna my true-love ye met by the tree;
Proud is her leal heart, and modest her nature;
She never lo'ed ony till ance she lo'ed ine.

"Her name it is Mary; she's frae Castle Cary,
Aft has she sat when a bairn on my knee;
Fair as your face is, were 't fifty times fairer,
Young braggar, she ne'er wa'd gie kisses to thee."

"It was then your Mary; she's frae Castle Cary;
It was then your true-love I met by the tree;
Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature,
Sweet were the kisses that she gae to me."

Sair gloomed his dark brow; blood red his cheek grew; Wild flashed the fire frae his red-rolling ee!

"Ye's rue sair this morning your boasting and scorning, Defend ye, fause traitor, fu' loudly ye lie!"

"Awa wi' beguiling," cried the youth smiling;
Aff gade the bonnet, the lint-white lock flee;

The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom sha'ing,
Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark-rolling ee!

“Is it my wee thing? is it mine ain thing? Is it my true-love here that I see?"

"O, Jamie, forgie me! your heart's constant to me— I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee."

-HECTOR MACNEIL.

THE SPINNING-WHEEL SONG

MELLOW the moonlight to shine is beginning;
Close by the window young Eileen is spinning;
Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother, sitting,
Is croaning, and moaning, and drowsily knitting-
"Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping."

'Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping." "Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing."

"Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying."

Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,

Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring;

Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing,

Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.