And round about me faintly floats The echo of a melody,

I used to hear in Arcady.

And yonder youth; nay, do not blush,
The boy's his father o'er again;
And hark ye, Miss, I was not plain,
When at his age: "What, must I hush?
He's coming this way:" Yes, I see,
You two yet dwell in Arcady.

And worlds on worlds; lo! in a daisy's cup,
A tiny dew-drop did reflect the whole.
And all the azure sky and countless spheres
That gleam in Heaven through the varied years
Lay in this little globule. Oh! my soul,
Thou mote in nature, is not this to thee

An emblem of thyself? Ere thou hast passed
Beyond Time's threshold and God's purpose vast
Breaks on thy sight, yet canst thou clearly see
The one great goal man may attain at last,
And mirror in thyself eternity.

TOO LATE you came; my days have sped,
These many years through sun and shade;
Once I had hailed your coming, Love,
But now my cold heart does not move,
And though your soft eyes are a-flame,
Too late you came.

Go seek some other soul's distress,
I've grown too old for wantonness,
And learned what false, vain folly lies
In flattering lips and laughing eyes.
Go, Love! Your arrows miss their aim!
Too late you came.

THE SOUL'S REFLECTION.

ONCE in the night time I was looking up,

And saw the stars slow circling round the pole,— Orbs that through endless epicycles roll,

M. B. M.

Manibus date lilia plenis.

PEACE! Peace! No tears nor shadow of regret,
No cypress here nor any sprig of rue:
Bring roses dripping with the morning dew,
And lilies with the earliest rain-drops wet:
Bring purple pansies and the violet,

And all the sweetest flowers that ever grew
Save those suggesting sorrow; we would strew
Only bright buds above thee and forget
Our sorrow in thy joy, sweet sister; tears

Are not for thee: ours is alone the pain,
The doubt, the darkness, and the care-racked
brain;

Thou hast escaped the weariness of years,
And we weep not that death th' immortal birth,
Gives back to Heaven the angel lent to earth.

CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON.

SYN

YNONYMOUS with literature is the name of Constance Fenimore Woolson, springing from a literary family, yet winning her own laurels independent of those already accorded to her brilliant ancestry.

Miss Woolson was born at Claremont, N. H., in 1848, and is a daughter of Charles Jarvis Woolson and Hannah Cooper Pomeroy. Mrs. Woolson, Constance's mother, was a woman of marked literary ability. She was a niece of Fenimore Cooper, after whom Constance was named. The Woolsons moved to Cleveland, O., when Constance was quite young. Her education, with the exception of a time passed at Madame Chegary's French school in New York City, was obtained at a young ladies' seminary in Cleveland. In 1869 Miss Woolson's father died, and shortly thereafter she began writing. In 1873 she moved with her mother to the Southern States, residing principally in Florida until 1879. In that year her mother died, and Miss Woolson went to England where she has since resided. contributing to different periodicals, Miss Woolson has published several novels, the first, "Anne" (1882), being an instant success. N. L. M.

"I TOO!"

Besides

"LET us spread the sail for purple islands,
Far in undiscovered tropic seas;
Let us track the glimmering arctic highlands
Where no breath of men, no leaf of trees
E'er has lived." So speak the elders, telling
By the hearth their list of fancies through,
Heedless of the child whose heart is swelling,
Till he cries at last, "I too! I too!"

And I, too, O my Father! Thou hast made me
I have life, and life must have its way;
Why should love and gladness be gainsaid me?
Why should shadows cloud my little day?
Naked souls weigh in thy balance even-
Souls of kings are worth no more than mine;
Why are gifts e'er to my brother given,

While my heart and I together pine?

Meanest things that breath have, with no asking,
Fullest joys: the one-day's butterfly
Finds its rose, and, in the sunshine basking,
Has the whole of life ere it doth die.
Dove, no sorrow on thy heart is preying;
With thy full contentment thou dost coo;

Yet, must man cry for a dove's life, saying, "Make me as a dove-I too! I too!"

Nay, for something moves within — a spirit
Rises in his breast, he feels it stir;
Soul-joys greater than the doves inherit
Should be his to feel; yet, why defer
To a next world's veiled and far to-morrow
All his longings for a present bliss?
Stones of faith are hard; oh, could he borrow,
From that world's great stores one taste for this!

Hungry stands he by his empty table,

Thirsty waits beside his empty wellNor with all his striving, is he able

One full joy to catch where hundreds swell In his neighbor's bosom; see, he sifteth

Once again his poor life through and through— Finds but ashes: is it strange he lifteth Up his cry, "O Lord! I too! I too!"

TOM.

YES, Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew.
Just listen to this:
When the old mill took fire, and the flooring fell
through,

And I with it, helpless there, full in my view,
What do you think my eyes saw through the fire
That crept along, crept along, nigher and nigher,
But Robin, my baby-boy, laughing to see
The shining? He must have come there after me,
Toddled alone from the cottage without
Anyone's missing him.

Then, what a shout-
Oh, how I shouted, "For Heaven's sake, men,
Save little Robin!" Again and again
They tried, but the fire held them back like a wall.
I could hear them go at it, and at it, and call,
"Never mind, baby, sit still like a man,

We 're coming to get you as fast as we can."
They could not see him, but I could.
He sat
Still on a beam, his little straw hat
Carefully placed by his side; and his eyes
Stared at the flame with a baby's surprise,
Calm and unconscious, as nearer it crept.

The roar of the fire up above must have kept The sound of his mother's voice, shrieking his name,

From reaching the child. But I heard it. It came Again and again. Oh, God, what a cry!

The axes went faster; I saw the sparks fly

Where the men worked like tigers, nor minded the heat

That scorched them-when, suddenly, there at their feet

The great beams leaned in—they saw him — then, crash,

-

Down came the wall! The men made a dash,—
Jumped to get out of the way,- and I thought,
"All's up with poor little Robin!” and brought
Slowly the arm that was least hurt to hide

The sight of the child there, when swift, at my side,

Some one rushed by, and went right through the flame,

Straight as a dart — caught the child-then came Back with him, choking and crying, but-saved! Saved safe and sound!

Oh, how the men raved, Shouted, and cried, and hurrahed! Then they all Rushed at the work again, lest the back wall Where I was lying, away from the fire,

Should fall in and bury me.

Oh! you'd admire

To see Robin now; he's as bright as a dime, Deep in some mischief, too, most of the time. Tom, it was, saved him. Now, isn't it true Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew? There's Robin now! See, he's strong as a log! And there comes Tom too

Yes, Tom was our dog.

KENTUCKY BELLE.

SUMMER of 'sixty-three, sir, and Conrad was gone

away

Gone to the country-town, sir, to sell our first load of hay

We lived in the log-house yonder, poor as ever

you've seen;

Röschen there was a baby, and I was only nineteen.

Conrad, he took the oxen, but he left Kentucky

Belle;

How much we thought of Kentuck, I couldn't begin to tell

Came from the Blue-Grass country; my father gave

her to me

When I rode North with Conrad, away from the Tennessee.

Conrad lived in Ohio-a German he is, you knowThe house stood in broad corn-fields, stretching on, row after row: