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though framed after the Shakspearian model. A Life of Fane was published (1871) by Lord Lytton, who says of the two sonnets, dated 1870: "On the evening of the 12th of March, 1870, his physical suffering was excessive. The following day was the birthday of his mother." She found what she "dared not, could not anticipate." There lay upon the table a letter with the two sonnets. "They are the last words ever written by Julian Fane. But this golden chain of votive verse *** was not broken till life itself had left the hand that wrought it."

When all things sweet and fair are cloaked in shrouds,

And dire calamity and care have birth;
When furious tempests strip the woodland green,
And from bare boughs the hapless songsters sing:
When Winter stalks, a spectre, on the scene,
And breathes a blight on every living thing;
Then, when the spirit of man, by sickness tried,
Half fears, half hopes, that Death be at his side,
Outleaps the sun, and gives him life again.
O Mother, I clasped Death; but, seeing thy face,
Leaped from his dark arms to thy dear embrace.'

AD MATREM.

MARCH 13, 1862.

Oft in the after-days, when thou and I
Have fallen from the scope of human view,
When, both together, under the sweet sky
We sleep beneath the daisies and the dew,
Men will recall thy gracious presence bland,
Conning the pictured sweetness of thy face;
Will pore o'er paintings by thy plastic hand,
And vaunt thy skill, and tell thy deeds of grace.
Oh may they then, who crown thee with true bays,
Saying, "What love unto her son she bore!"
Make this addition to thy perfect praise,
"Nor ever yet was mother worshipped more!"
So shall I live with thee, and thy dear fame
Shall link my love unto thine honored name.

AD MATREM. MARCH 13, 1864.

Music, and frankincense of flowers, belong
To this sweet festival of all the year.
Take, then, the latest blossom of my song,
And to Love's canticle incline thine ear.

What is it that Love chants? thy perfect praise.
What is it that Love prays? worthy to prove.
What is it Love desires? thy length of days.
What is it that Love asks? return of love.
Ah, what requital can Love ask more dear
Than by Love's priceless self to be repaid?
Thy liberal love, increasing year by year,
Hath granted more than all my heart hath prayed,
And, prodigal as Nature, makes me pine

To think how poor my love compared with thine!

AD MATREM.

MARCH 13, 1870.

When the vast heaven is dark with ominous clouds, That lower their gloomful faces to the earth;

Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

Rossetti was born in London in 1828; the son of Mr. Gabriel Rossetti (1783-1854), Professor of Italian at King's College, and author of a Commentary on Dante. A poet, Rossetti is also an artist, and one of the originators of the so-called Pre-Raphaelite school of painting. He published in 1870 a volume of poems; also a work on the early Italian poets. Mr. Stedman, in his "Victorian Poets," says of him: "He approaches Tennyson in simplicity, purity, and richness of tone. His verse is compact of tenderness, emotional ecstasy, and poetic fre."

LOST DAYS: SONNET.

The lost days of my life until to-day,
What were they, could I see them on the street
Lie as they fell? Would they be ears of wheat
Sown once for food but trodden into clay?
Or golden coins squandered and still to pay?
Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet?
Or such spilt water as in dreams must cheat
The throats of men in Hell, who thirst alway!
I do not see them here; but after death
God knows I know the faces I shall see,
Each one a murdered self, with low last breath:
"I am thyself,-what hast thou done to me?"
"And I-and I-thyself" (lo! each one saith),
"And thou thyself to all eternity!"

FROM "THE PORTRAIT." This is her picture as she was:

It seems a thing to wonder on, As though mine image in the glass Should tarry when myself am gone. I gaze until she seems to stir,-Until mine eyes almost aver

1 It will be remarked that this sonnet has but thirteen lines.

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A native of Dorchester, now a part of Boston, Mass., Cook was born September 8th, 1828. He was fitted for Harvard College, which he entered, and was duly graduated. As a writer on art and kindred subjects, he has won well-merited distinction. His residence is the city of New York. His poems are scattered through the magazines, but are well worthy of being collected into a volume. His "Abram and Zimri" is one of the most charming narrative poems in the language.

ABRAM AND ZIMRI.

Abram and Zimri owned a field together-
A level field hid in a happy vale;

They ploughed it with one plough, and in the spring

Sowed, walking side by side, the fruitful seed.
In harvest, when the glad earth smiles with grain,
Each carried to his home one-half the sheaves,
And stored them with much labor in his barns.
Now Abram had a wife and seven sons,
But Zimri dwelt alone within his house.
One night, before the sheaves were gathered in,
As Zimri lay upon his lonely bed
And counted in his mind his little gains,
He thought upon his brother Abram's lot,
And said, "I dwell alone within my house,
But Abram hath a wife and seven sons,
And yet we share the harvest sheaves alike.
He surely needeth more for life than I;
I will arise, and gird myself, and go

Down to the field, and add to his from mine."
So he arose, and girded up his loins,
And went out softly to the level field;
The moon shone out from dusky bars of clouds,
The trees stood black against the cold blue sky,
The branches waved and whispered in the wind.

So Zimri, guided by the shifting light,
Went down the mountain path, and found the field,
Took from his store of sheaves a generous third,
And bore them gladly to his brother's heap,
And then went back to sleep and happy dreams.
Now, that same night, as Abram lay in bed,
Thinking upon his blissful state in life,
He thought upon his brother Zimri's lot,
And said, "He dwells within his house alone,
He goeth forth to toil with few to help,
He goeth home at night to a cold house,
And hath few other friends but me and mine"
(For these two tilled the happy vale alone);
"While I, whom Heaven bath very greatly blessed,
Dwell happy with my wife and seven sons,
Who aid me in my toil and make it light,
And yet we share the harvest sheaves alike.
This surely is not pleasing unto God;

I will arise and gird myself, and go
Out to the field, and borrow from my store,
And add unto my brother Zimri's pile."

So he arose and girded up his loins,
And went down softly to the level field;
The moon shone out from silver bars of clouds,
The trees stood black against the starry sky,
The dark leaves waved and whispered in the breeze.
So Abram, guided by the doubtful light,
Passed down the mountain path and found the field,
Took from his store of sheaves a generous third,
And added them unto his brother's heap;
Then he went back to sleep and happy dreams.
So the next morning with the early sun
The brothers rose, and went out to their toil;
And when they came to see the heavy sheaves,
Each wondered in his heart to find his heap,
Though he had given a third, was still the same.
Now the next night went Zimri to the field,
Took from his store of sheaves a generous share
And placed them on his brother Abram's heap,
And then lay down behind his pile to watch.
The moon looked out from bars of silvery cloud,
The cedars stood up black against the sky,
The olive-branches whispered in the wind:
Then Abram came down softly from his home,
And, looking to the right and left, went on,
Took from his ample store a generous third,
And laid it on his brother Zimri's pile.
Then Zimri rose and caught him in his arms,
And wept upon his neck, and kissed his cheek,
And Abram saw the whole, and could not speak,
Neither could Zimri. So they walked along
Back to their homes, and thanked their God in prayer
That he had bound them in such loving bands.

Walter Thornbury.

Thornbury (1828-1876) was the son of a London solicitor, and by baptism his first name was George, which he dropped. His poetical works were: "Lays and Legends of the New World," 1851; "Songs of Cavaliers and Roundheads," 1857; and "Historical and Legendary Ballads and Songs," 1875. He was the author of some six or seven novels, and was for some years art-critic to the Athenæum. As a tourist, he wrote "Experiences in the United States," also Life in Turkey." He toiled on till within a few days of his death, which came suddenly; the result of over-brain-work.

HOW SIR RICHARD DIED.
Stately as bridegroom to a feast
Sir Richard trod the scaffold stair,
And, bowing to the crowd, untied

The love-locks from his sable hair; Took off his watch, "Give that to Ned, I've done with time," he proudly said.

'Twas bitter cold-it made him shake.

Said one "Ah! see the villain's look!" Sir Richard, with a scornful frown,

Cried, "Frost, not fear, my body shook!" Giving a gold-piece to the slave,

He laughed, "Now praise me, master knave!"

They pointed, with a sneering smile,

Unto a black box, long and grim; But no white shroud, or badge of death, Had power to draw a tear from him; "It needs no lock," he said in jest, "This chamber where to-night I rest."

Then crying out-"God save the King!"
In spite of hiss and shout and frown;
He stripped his doublet, dropped his cloak,
And gave the headsman's man a crown;
Then "On for heaven!" he proudly cried,
And bowed his head-and so he died.

THE OLD GRENADIER'S STORY. TOLD ON A BENCH OUTSIDE THE INVALIDES.

"Twas the day beside the Pyramids,-
It seems but an hour ago,

That Kleber's Foot stood firm in squares,
Returning blow for blow.

The Mamelukes were tossing

Their standards to the sky,

When I heard a child's voice say, "My men, Teach me the way to die!"

"Twas a little drummer, with his side

Torn terribly with shot;

But still he feebly beat his drum,
As though the wound were not.
And when the Mameluke's wild horse
Burst with a scream and cry,
He said, "O men of the Forty-third,
Teach me the way to die!

"My mother has got other sons,

With stouter hearts than mine,
But none more ready blood for France
To pour out free as wine.

Yet still life's sweet," the brave lad moaned, "Fair are this earth and sky;

Then, comrades of the Forty-third,
Teach me the way to die!"

I saw Salenche, of the granite heart,
Wiping his burning eyes:

It was by far more pitiful

Than mere loud sobs and cries. One bit his cartridge till his lip Grew black as winter sky, But still the boy moaned, "Forty-third, Teach me the way to die!"

Oh never saw I sight like that!

The sergeant flung down flag, Even the fifer bound his brow

With a wet and bloody rag; Then looked at locks, and fixed their steel, But never made reply,

Until he sobbed out once again, "Teach me the way to die!"

Then, with a shout that flew to God,

They strode into the fray;

I saw their red plumes join and wave, But slowly melt away.

The last who went-a wounded man— Bade the poor boy good-bye,

And said, "We men of the Forty-third Teach you the way to die!"

I never saw so sad a look

As the poor youngster cast, When the hot smoke of cannon

In cloud and whirlwind passed. Earth shook, and Heaven answered: I watched his eagle-eye,

As he faintly moaned, "The Forty-third Teach me the way to die!"

Then, with a musket for a crutch,

He limped unto the fight; I, with a bullet in my hip,

Had neither strength nor might. But, proudly beating on his drum, A fever in his eye,

I heard him moan, "The Forty-third Taught me the way to die!"

They found him on the morrow,
Stretched on a heap of dead;
His hand was in the grenadier's

Who at his bidding bled.

They hung a medal round his neck,

And closed his dauntless eye;

On the stone they cut, "The Forty-third Taught him the way to die!"

'Tis forty years from then till nowThe grave gapes at my feet-

Yet when I think of such a boy,

I feel my old heart beat.

And from my sleep I sometimes wake,

Hearing a feeble cry,

And a voice that says, "Now, Forty-third, Teach me the way to die!"

William Allingham.

Allingham (1828-....) is a native of Ballyshannon, County of Donegal, Ireland. Removing to England, he obtained an appointment in the Customs. His publications are: "Poems," 1850; "Day and Night Songs," 1854; "Laurence Bloomfield in Ireland" (a poem in twelve chapters), 1864; and "Fifty Modern Poems," 1865. For several years he was editor of Fraser's Magazine, but retired from the editorship in 1879.

SONG.

O Spirit of the Summer-time!
Bring back the roses to the dells;
The swallow from her distant clime,
The honey-bee from drowsy cells.

Bring back the friendship of the sun; The gilded evenings, calm and late, When merry children homeward run, And peeping stars bid lovers wait.

Bring back the singing; and the scent Of meadow-lands at dewy prime ;Oh bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!

THE TOUCHSTONE.

A man there came, whence none could tell,
Bearing a Touchstone in his hand,
And tested all things in the laud
By its unerring spell.

A thousand transformations rose

From fair to foul, from foul to fair; The golden crown he did not spare, Nor scorn the beggar's clothes.

Of heirloom jewels, prized so much,
Were many changed to chips and clods;
And even statues of the gods
Crumbled beneath its touch.

Then angrily the people cried,
"The loss outweighs the profit far;
Our goods suffice us as they are:
We will not have them tried."

And, since they could not so avail
To check his unrelenting quest,
They seized him, saying, "Let him test
How real is our jail!"

But though they slew him with the sword,
And in a fire his Touchstone burned,
Its doings could not be o'erturned,
Its undoings restored.

And when, to stop all future harm,

They strewed its ashes on the breeze, They little guessed each grain of these Conveyed the perfect charm.

AUTUMNAL SONNET.

Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods,
And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt,
And night by night the monitory blast
Wails in the key-hole, telling how it passed
O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes,
Or grim, wide wave; and now the power is felt
Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods
Than any joy indulgent summer dealt.
Dear friends, together in the glimmering eve,
Pensive and glad, with tones that recognize
The soft invisible dew in each one's eyes,
It may be, somewhat thus we shall have leave
To walk with memory, when distant lies
Poor Earth, where we were wont to live and grieve.

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