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Steal on her ear, distinct and clear As if her lover was in the room.

And read me this riddle, how Ruth should know,

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As she bounds to throw open the heavy door,

That her lover was lost in the drifting snow,
Dying or dead, on the great wild moor.

"Help! help!" "Lost! lost!"
Rings through the night as she rushes away,
Stumbling, blinded and tempest-tossed,
Straight to the drift where her lover lay.

And swift they leap after her into the night,
Into the drifts by Blueberg hill,
Ridsdale and Robinson, each with a light,
To find her there holding him white and
still.

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The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers, And the waves with the coming squallcloud blacken.

Open one point on the weather-bow,

Is the light-house tall on Fire Island
Head.

There's a shade of doubt on the captain's brow,

And the pilot watches the heaving lead.

stand at the wheel, and with eager eye To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze, Till the muttered order of " Full and by !” Is suddenly changed for "Full for stays!"

The ship bends lower before the breeze,

As her broadside fair to the blast she lays; And she swifter springs to the rising seas, As the pilot calls, "Stand by for stays!"

It is silence all, as each in his place, With the gathered coil in his hardened hands,

By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace,

Waiting the watchword impatient stands.

And the light on Fire Island Head draws near,

As, trumpet-winged, the pilot's shout From his post on the bowsprit's heel I hear, With the welcome call of "Ready!

About!"

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And my wrecked and scattered galleys
Strew dark Actium's fatal shore;
Though no glittering guards surround me,
Prompt to do their master's will,
I must perish like a Roman,
Die the great Triumvir still.

Let not Caesar's servile minions

Mock the lion thus laid low; 'Twas no foeman's arm that felled him, "T was his own that struck the blow: His who, pillowed on thy bosom, Turned aside from glory's ray His who, drunk with thy caresses, Madly threw a world away.

Should the base plebeian rabble

Dare assail my name at Rome, Where the noble spouse Octavia

Weeps within her widowed home, Seek her; say the gods bear witness, Altars, augers, circling wings, That her blood, with mine commingled, Yet shall mount the thrones of kings.

And for thee, star-eyed Egyptian-
Glorious sorceress of the Nile!
Light the path to Stygian horrors,

With the splendor of thy smile;
Give the Cæsar 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!

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"But long ere this they knew her doom, And the captain called all hands to prayer;

And solemnly over the ocean's boom

Their orisons wailed on the troublous air.

And round about the vessel there rose

Tall plumes of spray as white as snow, Like angels in their ascension clothes,

Waiting for those who prayed below.

"So these three hundred people clung

As well as they could, to spar and rope; With a word of prayer upon every tongue, Nor on any face a glimmer of hope. But there was no blubbering weak and wild,

Of tearful faces I saw but one, A rough old salt, who cried like a child, And not for himself, but the captain's

son.

"The captain stood on the quarter-deck, Firm but pale, with trumpet in hand; Sometimes he looked at the breaking wreck,

Sometimes he sadly looked to land; And often he smiled to cheer the crew

But, Lord! the smile was terrible grimTill over the quarter a huge sea flew; And that was the last they saw of him.

"I saw one young fellow with his bride, Standing amidships upon the wreck; His face was white as the boiling tide,

And she was clinging about his neck. And I saw them try to say good-by,

But neither could hear the other speak; So they floated away through the sea to die

Shoulder to shoulder, and cheek to cheek. "And there was a child, but eight at best,

Who went his way in a sea she shipped, All the while holding upon his breast

A little pet parrot whose wings were clipped.

And, as the boy and the bird went by, Swinging away on a tall wave's crest, They were gripped by a man, with a drowning cry,

And together the three went down to

rest.

"And so the crew went one by one,

Some with gladness, and few with fear,Cold and hardship such work had done That few seemed frightened when death

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1 Bee BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE, p. 812.

FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN!

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No record of her high descent

There needs, nor memory of her name; Enough that Raphael's colors blent

To give her features deathless fame!

T was his anointing hand that set
The crown of beauty on her brow;
Still lives its early radiance yet,

As at the earliest, even now.

Tis not the ecstasy that glows
In all the rapt Cecilia's grace;
Nor yet the holy, calm repose

He painted on the Virgin's face.

Less of the heavens, and more of earth,
There lurk within these earnest eyes,
The passions that have had their birth
And grown beneath Italian skies.

What mortal thoughts, and cares, and dreams,

What hopes, and fears, and longings rest Where falls the folded veil, or gleams The golden necklace on her breast!

What mockery of the painted glow

May shade the secret soul within;

What griefs from passion's overflow, What shame that follows after sin !

Yet calm as heaven's serenest deeps
Are those pure eyes, those glances pure;
And queenly is the state she keeps,
In beauty's lofty trust secure.

And who has strayed, by happy chance, Through all those grand and pictured halls,

Nor felt the magic of her glance,

As wheu a voice of music calls?
Not soon shall I forget the day,
Sweet day, in spring's unclouded time,
While on the glowing canvas lay
The light of that delicious clime,-

I marked the matchless colors wreathed
On the fair brow, the peerless cheek;
The lips, I fancied, almost breathed

The blessings that they could not speak.

Fair were the eyes with mine that bent
Upon the picture their mild gaze,
And dear the voice that gave consent
To all the utterance of my praise.

O fit companionship of thought;

O happy memories, shrined apart; The rapture that the painter wrought, The kindred rapture of the heart! WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER

ON ONE WHO DIED IN MAY

WHY, Death, what dost thou here,
This time o' year?

Peach-blow and apple-blossom;
Clouds, white as my love's bosom;
Warm wind o' the west

Cradling the robin's nest;

Young meadows basting their green laps to

fill

With golden dandelion and daffodil: These are fit sights for spring; But, oh, thou hateful thing,

What dost thou here?

Why, Death, what dost thou here,
This time o' year?
Fair, at the old oak's knee,
The young anemone;

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