flowers.

Write, sister, write!

Write, brother, write!

Around me I behold,

Where'er these casual eyes are cast,

The mighty minds of old:

My never-failing friends are they,

pages.

Write, "Shoulder to shoulder, brother, we

will go;

With them I take delight in weal And seek relief in woe;

flict rages,

We will defy the battle and the foe."
Write, brother, write!

“We who have trodden boyhood's path together

Beneath the summer's sun and winter's sky

What matter if life brings us some foul

weather?

We may be stronger than adversity." Write, brother, write!

Fellow-immortal, write!

One God reigns in the heavens-there is no other

How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedewed
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.
My thoughts are with the dead; with them

I live in long-past years-
Their virtues love, their faults condemn,

Partake their hopes and fears,
And from their lessons seek and find

Instruction with a humble mind.

My hopes are with the dead; anon

My place with them will be, And I with them shall travel on

Through all futurity,

Yet leaving here a name, I trust,

spoken;

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

A

BEAUTY.

THING of beauty is a joy for ever; Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness, but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams and health and quiet breathing.

Therefore on every morrow are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'erdarkened ways
Made for our searching. Yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils,
With the green world they live in; and clear

rills

That for themselves a cooling covert make 'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake, Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms;

And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead-
All lovely tales that we have heard or read,
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heavens' brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour. No! Even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,

Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast
That whether there be shine, or gloom o'er-
cast,

They alway must be with us, or we die.

JOHN KEATS.

MOLLIE MEADE.

A STORY WITH TWO SIDES.

COM

66

I.

HOME right in! How are you, Fred? Find a chair, and have a light." Well, old boy, recovered yet

From the Mathers' jam last night?" "Didn't dance: the German's old.'

"Didn't you? I had to lead. Awful bore! But where were you?" "Sat it out with Mollie Meade : Jolly little girl she is.

Said she didn't care to dance'D rather have a quiet chat;

Then she gave me such a glance! So, when you had cleared the room

And had captured all the chairs, Having nowhere else, we two

Took possession of the stairs: I was on the lower step,

Mollie on the next aboveGave me her bouquet to hold,

Asked me to draw off her glove. Then, of course, I squeezed her hand,

Talked about my wasted life, Said my sole salvation must

Be a true and gentle wife; Then, you know, I used my eyes.

She believed me-every word; Almost said she loved me.

Jove!

Such a voice I never heard! Gave me some symbolic flower;

Had a meaning-oh, so sweet! Don't know what it is, I'm sure: Must have dropped it in the street. How I spooned! And she Ha! ha! Well, I know it wasn't right, But she did believe me so

That I-kissed her. Pass a light."