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Story of Acontius and Cydippe, the Man who never Laughed Again, the Lovers of Gudrun, &c. Part IV., or Winter, December, Janu ary, and February,' contains the Story of the Golden Apples, the Fostering of Aslang, Bellerophon at Argos, Bellerophon in Lycia, the Hill of Venus, &c. In this mixture of classic and Gothic fable, and in the number of tales in each part, the reader has variety enough in the Earthly Paradise,' but the poem is too long ever to obtain general popularity.

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July.

Fair was the morn to-day, the blossom's scent
Floated across the fresh grass, and the bees
With low vexed song from rose to lily went,
A gentle wind was in the heavy trees,
And thine eyes shone with joyous memories;
Fair was the early morn, and fair wert thou,
And I was happy.-Ah, be happy now!

Peace and content without us, love within,
That hour there was; now thunder and wild rain,
Have wrapped the cowering world, and foolish sin,
And nameless pride, have made us wise in vain;
Ah, love! although the morn shall come again,
And on new rose-buds the new sun shall smile,
Can we regain what we have lost meanwhile?

E'en now the west grows clear of storm and threat,
But 'midst the lightning did the fair sun die-

Ah, he shall rise again for ages yet,

He cannot waste his life-but thou and I

Who knows next morn if this felicity
My lips may feel, or if thou still shalt live,
This seal of love renewed once more to give?

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"ake heed of how the daisies grow,
O fools! and if ye could but know
How fair a world to yon is given.
O brooder on the hills of heaven,
When for my sin thou drav'st me forth,
Hadst thou forgot what this was worth,
Thine own hand made? The tears of
men,

The death of threescore years and ten,
The trembling of the timorous race-
Had these things so bedimmed the place
Thine own hand made, thou couldst not
know

To what a heaven the earth might grow,
If fear beneath the earth were laid.
If hope failed not, nor love decayed.

FRANCIS BRET HARTE.

An American humorist, somewhat in the style of Professor Lowell, has recently appeared in the pages of the Californian and United States journals, and whose fame soon spread to this country. FRANCIS BRETE HARTE was born in Albany. New York. in 1831. His

works have been republished in 1871 and 1872, by two London booksellers (Hotten, and Routledge & Co.), and consist of East and West,' That Heathen Chinee,' Truthful James,' The Luck of Roaring Camp,' &c. A prose work, 'Condensed Novels,' is a travesty of some popular works of fiction. We subjoin one of Bret Harte's graver effusions:

A Sanitary Message.

Last night, above the whistling wind,

I heard the welcome rain

A fusilade upon the roof,

A tattoo on the pane:

The key-hole piped: the chimney-top
A warlike trumpet blew;

Yet, mingling with these sounds of strife
A softer voice stole through.

⚫ Give thanks, O brothers!' said the voice,
That He who sent the rains,
Hath spared your fields the scarlet dew
That drips from patriot veins:
I've seen the grass on east rn graves
In brighter verdure rise;
But, oh the rain that gave it life
Sprang first from human eyes.

'I come to wash away no stain
Upon your wasted lea;

I raise no banners save the ones
The forests wave to me:

Upon the mountain-side, where Spring

Her farthest picket sets,
My reveille awakes a host
Of grassy bayonets.

'I visit every humble roof;
I mingle with the low:
Only upon the highest peaks

My blessings fall in snow;
Until, in tricklings of the stream,
And drainings of the lea,
My unspent bounty comes at last
To mingle with the sea.'

And thus all night, above the wind,
I heard the welcome rain-

A fusilade upon the ro f,

A tattoo on the pane:

The key-hole piped; the chimney-top
A warlike trumpet blew;

But, mingling with these sounds of

strife,

This hymn of peace stole through.

ELIZA COOK-MRS. PARKES BELLOE-MISS HUME-MISS PROCTER-ISA CRAIG-KNOX-JEAN INGELOW-MRS. WEBSTER.

In poetry, as in prose fiction, ladies crowd the arena, and contend for the highest prizes. Among other fair competitors are the following: In 1840 MISS ELIZA COOK (born in Southwark, London, about 1818) published a volume of miscellaneous poems, entitled 'Melaia, and other Poems.' A great number of small pieces have also been contributed by Miss Cook to periodical works; and in 1849 she established a weekly periodical, Eliza Cook's Journal,' which enjoyed considerable popularity from 1849 until 1854, when ill health compelled Miss Cook to give it up. In 1864 she published a second vo fume of poems, New Echoes,' &c.; and the same year a pension of £100 a year was settled on the authoress.

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And oh, Will Watch, the smuggler bold,'
My plighted troth thou'lt ever bold.

I doted on the Auld Scots' Sonnet,'
As though I'd worn the plaid and tonnet;
I went abroad with Sandy's Ghost,'
I stood with Bannockburn's brave host,
And proudly tossed my curly head
With Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled!'
I shouted Coming through the rye'
With restless step and sparkling eye,
And chased away the passing frown
With Bouny ran the burnie down.'

Old songs! old songs !-my brain has lost
Much that it gained with pain and cost:
I have forgotten all the rules

Of Murray's books and Trimmer's schools;
Detested figures-how I hate

The mere remembrance of a slate!

How have I cast from woman's thought
Much goodly lore the girl was taught;
But not a word has passed away

Of Rest thee, babe,' or Robin Gray.'
The ballad still is breathing round,
But other voices yield the sound;
Strangers possess the household room;
The mother lieth in the tomb;

And the blithe boy that praised her song
Sleeping as soundly and as long.

Old songs! old songs!-I should not sigh;

Joys of the earth on earth must die;

But spectral forms will sometimes start

Within the caverns of the heart,

Haunting the lone and darkened cell

Where, warm in life, t ey used to dwell,

Hope, youth, love, home each human tie

That binds we know not how or why

All, all that to the soul belongs

Is closely mingled with Old Songs.'

BESSIE RAYNER PARKES (now Mrs. Belloe), the daughter of the late Joseph Parkes of the Court of Chancery (1796-1865), is author of Poems,' 1855; Gabriel,' 1856; The Cat Aspasia' (a prose story); 'Ballads and Songs,' 1863; 'La Belle France,' 1868; &c. As a poetess, this lady is of the romantic and imaginative school of Shelley-to whose memory her poem of Gabriel' is dedicated. She has been an assiduous labourer in the cause of social amelioration and female improvement.-MISS MARY C. HUME, daughter of the late Joseph Hume, M.P., in 1858 published 'Normiton, a dramatic poem, with other pieces.-ADELAINE ANNE PROCTER (1825-1864) was author of Legends and Lyrics, a Book of Verse,' 1858. This lady was the accomplished daughter of Barry Cornwall,' and her poetry had much of the paternal grace and manner.-ISA CRAIG (now Mrs. Knox), author of Poems,' 1856, is a native of Edinburgh, born October 17, 1831. While working as a seamstress, this lady contributed poems, reviews, and essays to the Scotsman' newspaper, and was warmly befriended by the late Mr. Ritchie, proprietor of

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that journal. She afterwards removed to London, and officiated as assistant-secretary of the Association for the Promotion of Social Science. She was the fortunate poetess who carried off the prize (£50) for the best poem at the Crystal Palace celebration of the Burns Centenary, January 25, 1859.-MISS JEAN INGELOW, a native of Ipswich, Suffolk, born about 1830, has written a volume of Poems, She has 1863, which ran_through_fourteen editions in five years. also written A Story of Doom, and other Poems,' 1867; 'Mopsa the Fairy,' 1869; several prose stories, and numerous contributions to periodical works.

Robin Hood.-By MISS PARKES.

In a fair wood like this where the beeches are growing,
Brave Robin Hood hunted in days of old;

Down his broad shoulders his brown locks fell flowing,
His cap was of green, with a tassel of gold.

His eye was as blue as the sky in midsummer,
Ruddy his cheek as the oak-leaves in June,
Hearty his voice as he hailed the new-comer,
Tender to maidens in changeable tune.

His step had a strength and his smile had a sweetness,
His spirit was wrought of the sun and the breeze,
He moved as a man framed in nature's completeness,
And grew unabashed with the growth of the trees.

And ever to poets who walk in the gloaming
His horn is still heard in the prime of the year;
Last eve he went with us, unseen, in our roaming,
And thrilled with his presence the shy troops of deer.

Then Robin stole forth in his quaint forest fashion,
For dear to the heart of all poets is he,

And in mystical whispers awakened the passion
Which slumbers within for the life that were free.

We follow the lead unawares of his spirit,
He tells us the tales which we heard in past time,
Ah! why should we forfeit this earth we inherit,
For lives which we cannot expand into rhyme !

I think as I lie in the shade of the beeches,
How lived and how loved this old hero of song;
I would we could follow the lesson he teaches,
And dwell as he dwelt these wild thickets among-

At least for a while, till we caught up the meaning,
The beeches breathe out in the wealth of their growth,
Width in their nobleness, love in their leaning,
And peace at the heart from the fullness of both.

A Doubting Heart.-By MISS PROCTER.

Where are the swallows fled?

Frozen and dead,

Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore.
O doubting heart!

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Going Out and Coming In.-By ISA CRAIG-KNOX.

In that home was joy and sorrow

Where an infant first drew breath, While an aged sire was drawing Near unto the gate of death."

His feeble pulse was failing..

And his eye was growing dim;
He was standing on the threshold
When they brought the babe to him.

While to murmur forth a blessing
On the little one he tried,
In his trembling arms he raised it,
Pressed it to his lips and died.
An awful darkness resteth

On the path they both begin,
Who thus met upon the threshold,
Going out aud coming in.

Going out unto the triumph,
Coming in unto the fight-
Coming in unto the darkness,
Going out unto the light;
Although the shadow deepened
In the moment of eclipse,

When he passed through the dread portas,
With the blessing on his lips.

And to him who bravely conquers
As he conquered in the strife,
Life is but the way of dying-
Death is but the gate of life:
Yet, awful darkness resteth

On the path we all begin,
Where we meet upon the threshold,
Going out and coming in.

Song.-By MISS INGELOW.

When sparrows build, and the leaves break forth,
My old sorrow wakes and cries,

For I know there is dawn in the far, far north,

And a scarlet sun doth rise;

Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads,

And the icy founts run free,

And the bergs begin to bow their heads,

And plunge, and sail in the sea.

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