Rome, Florence. Venice-noble, fair and quaint,
They reign in robes of magic round me here;
But fading, blotted, dim, a picture faint,
With spell more silent, only pleads a tear.
Plead not! Thou hast my heart, O picture dim!
I see the fields, I see the autumn hand

Of God upon the maples! Answer Him
With weird, translucent glories, ye that stand
Like spirits in scarlet and in amethyst!

I see the sun break over you: the mist
On hills that lift from iron bases grand
Their heads superb!- the dream, it is my
native land.

WILLIAM DOUW LIGHTHALL.

"O World-God, give me Wealth!" the Egyptian cried.

His prayer was granted. High as heaven behold

Palace and Pyramid; the brimming tide Of lavish Nile washed all his land with gold.

Armies of slaves toiled ant-wise at his feet, World-circling traffic roared through mart and street,

His priests were gods, his spice-balmed kings enshrined

Set death at naught in rock-ribbed charnels deep.

Seek Pharaoh's race to-day, and ye shall find

Rust and the moth, silence and dusty sleep.

"O World-God, give me Beauty!" cried the Greek.

came

Plastic and vocal to his sense; each peak, Each grove, each stream, quick with Promethean flame,

none to save.

The Pharaohs knew him, and when Greece beheld,

power.

Of the immortal marble, his the play

No fire consumes him, neither floods de

vour;

hand.

tongue.

Go seek the sunshine race. Ye find to-day

A broken column and a lute unstrung.

EMMA LAZARUS.

I have known deeper wrongs. I, that speak to ye.
I had a brother once, a gracious boy,
Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope,
Of sweet and quiet joy; there was the look
Of Heaven upon his face which linners give
To the beloved disciple. How I loved
That gracious boy! younger by fifteen years,
Brother at once and son ! He left my side ;
A summer bloom on his fair cheeks, a smile
Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour
The pretty, harmless boy was slain ! I saw
The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried
For vengeance ! Rouse ye, Romans! Rouse

ye, slaves! Have ye brave sons? Look in the next fierce brawl

To see them die! Have ye fair daughters?-Look
To see them live, torn from your arms, distained,
Dishonored; and, if ye dare call for justice,
Be answered by the lash! Yet this is Rome,
That sat on her seven hills, and from her throne
Of beauty ruled the world! Yet we are Romans!
Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman
Was greater than a king! And once again
Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread
Of either Brutus ! - once again, I swear,
The eternal city shall be free; her sons shall
walk with princes.

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.