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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.

July.
Fair was the morn to-day, the blossom's scent
Floated across the fresh grase, and the bees
With low vexed song from rose to lily went,
A gentle wind was iu the heavy trees,
And thine eyes shone with joyous memories;
Fair was the early morn, and fair wert thou,
And I was happy.-Ali, be happy now!
Peace and content withont us, love within,
That hour there was; now thunder and wild rain,
Huve wrapped the cowering world, and foolish sin,
And nameless pride, have made us wise in vain;
Ah, love! although ihe morn shall come again,
And on new rose-buds the new sun shall sinile,
Can we regain what we huve lost ineunwhile?
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 kuous next morn if this felicity
My lips may feel, or if thou still shuít live,
This seal of love renewed once more to give ?

Song.From The Love of Alcestis.' o dwellers on the lovely carth,

'ake heed of how the daisies grow, Why will ye break your rest and mirth O fools! and if ye could but know To weary us with fruitless prayer? How fair a world to you is given. Why will ye toil and take such care O brooder on the hills of heaven, For cbildren's children yet unborn, When for my sin thoa drav'st me forth, And garner store of strife and scorn Haust thou forgot what this was worth, To gain a scarce-reinembered name, Thine own baud made? The tears of Cumbered with lies and soiled with shame?

The death of threescore years and ten, And if the gods care not for you,

The trembling of the timorous raceWhat is this foily ye must do

Had thes: things so bedimmed the place To win some mortal's feeble heart ? Thine own hand made, thou couldst not O fools! when cach man plays his part,

know And heeds his fellow little more

To what a heaven the earth might grow, Than these blue waves that kiss the If fear beneath the earth were laid, shore.

If hope failed not, nor love decayed

6

men,

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

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works have been republishel in 1871 and 1872, by two London book. sellers (Hotten, and Rouuedge & 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 tra. vesty of some popular works of fiction. We subjoin one of Bret Harte's graver effusions:

A Sanitary Message.
Last night, above the whistling wind, Her farthest picket sets,
I heard the welcome rain-

My reveille awakes a bost
A fusilade upon the roof,

Of grassy buyonets.
A tattoo on the pane:
The key-hole piped; the chimney-top 'I visit every humble roof;
A warlike trumpet blew;

I mingle with the low:
Yet, miogling with these sounds of strife Only upon the highest peaks
A softer voice stole through.

My blessings fall in snow ;

Until, in tricklings of the stream, Give thanks, O brothers!' said the voice, And drainings of the lea, • Tbat He who sent the rains,

My unspent bounty comes at last
Hath spared your filds the scarlet dew To mingle with the sea.'

That drips from patriut veins:
I've seeu the grass on easi rn graves And thus all night. above the wind,
In brighter verdure rise;

I heard the welcome rain
But, oh! the rain that gave it life A fusilade upon the ro f,
Sprang first from haman eyes.

A tattoo on the pane:

The key-hole piped; the chimney-top I come to wash away no stain

A warlike trumpet blew; Upon your wasted lea;

But, mingling with these sounds of I rai-e no banners save the ones

Bir fe, The forests wave to me:

This hymn of peace stole through. Upon the mountain-side, where Spring 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; Jume of poems, ‘New Echoes,' &c.; and the same year a pension of £100 a year was settled on the authoress.

Old Songs
Old songs! old songs :—what heaps I knew,
From Chevy Chase' to · Black-eyed Sue;'
From - Flow, thou regal purple stream,'
To Rousseau's melancholy • Dream!'
I loved the pensive · Cabin-boy.'
With earnest truth and real joy;
My warmest feelings wander back
To greet. Tom Bowling' and. Poor Jack;'

.

And oh, Will Watch, the smuggler bold,'
My plighted troth thon't ever bold.
I doted on the · Auld Scots' Sonnet,'
As though I'd worn the plaid and connet;
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 bruin 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 Robiu Gray.'

The ballad still is breathing round,
But other voices yield the sound;
Strangers possess the bousehold 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 sigb;
Joys of the earth on earth must die;
But spectral forms will sometimes start
Witbíu the caverns of the heart,
Haunting the love and darkened cell
Where, warm in life, t ey used to dwell,
Hope, youth, love, home each havian tie
That biods we know not how or why-
All, all that to the soul belongs
Is closely mingled with Old Songs.'

BEASIE 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, 1863, which ran through fourteen editions in five years. She has 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 bunted 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 i he 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 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 climbers within for the life that were free.
We follow the lead unawares of bis 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 conld 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 bobleness, 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 stoimy shore.

O doubung heart!

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Far over purple seas,
They waii in sunny ease,

The balmy southern breeze,
To bring them to their vortheru home once moro.
Why must the flowers die ?

Prisoned they lie
In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.

O doubting heart!
They only sleep below
The soft white ermine snow

While winter winds shall blow,
To breathe and smile upon you soon again.
The sun has hid its rays

These many days;
Will dreary hours never leave the earth ?

O doubting heart!
The stormy clouds on high
Veil the same runny sky
That soon--for spring is pigh-
Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.
Fair hope is dead, and light

Is quenched in night.
What sound can break the silence of despair ?

O doubting heart !
The sky is overcast,
Yet stars shall rise at last,

Brighter for darkness past,
And angels' silver voices stir the air.

Going Out and Coming In. - By Isa CRAIG-KNOX. In that home was joy and sorrow Going out unto the triumph,

Where an infant first drew breath, Coining in unto the fight While an aged sire was drawing

Coming in unto the darkness, Near upto the gate of death.

Going out unto the light; His feeble pulse was failing.

Although the shadow deepened And his eye was growing dim;

In the moment of eclipse, He was standing on the threshold When he passed through the dread portas,

When they brought the babe to him. With the blessing on his lips. While to murmur forth a blessing And to him who bravely conquers On the little one he tried,

As he conquered in the strife, In his trembling arms he raised it, Life is but the way of dyingPressed it to his lips and died.

Death is but the gate of life: An awful darkness resteth

Yet, awful darkness resteth
On the path they both begin,

On the path we all begin,
Who thus met npon the threshold, Where we meet upon the threshola,
Going out and coming in.

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 eun 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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