That grows by the Beautiful River; i
Whose sweet perfume

Or the Sillery soft and creamy;7 SAT

But Catawba wine

Has a taste more divine,

More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy,

Drugged is their juice

For foreign use,

When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantie,

To rack our brains

With the fever pains,

That have driven the Old World frantie.

To the sewers and sinks

With all such drinks,

And after them tumble the mixer;"

For a poison malign

Is such Borgia wine,

Or at best but a Devil's Elixir.

While pure as a spring

Is the wine I sing,

And to praise it, one needs but name it;

For Catawba wine

Has need of no sign,

No tavern-bush to proclaim it.

And this Song of the Vine,
This greeting of mine,

The winds and the birds shall deliver
To the Queen of the West,.

In her garlands dressed,

On the banks of the Beautiful River..

SANTA FILOMENA.

WHENE'ER a noble deed is wrought,
Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,
Our hearts, in glad surprise,
To higher levels rise.

The tidal wave of deeper souls
Into our inmost being rolls,
And lifts us unawares

Out of all meaner cares.

Honor to those whose words or deeds

Thus help us in our daily needs,
And by their overflow

Raise us from what is low!

I

Thus thought I, as by night I read
Of the great army of the dead,
The trenches cold and damp,
The starved and frozen camp,-

The wounded from the battle-plain,
In dreary hospitals of pain,
The cheerless corridors,

The cold and stony floors.

Lo! in that house of misery

A lady with a lamp I see

Pass through the glimmering gloom,

And flit from room to room.

And slow, as in a dream of bliss,
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss.
Her shadow, as it falls

Upon the darkening walls.

As if a door in heaven should be.
Opened and then closed suddenly,
The vision came and went,

The light shone and was spent.
On England's annals, through the long
Hereafter of her speech and song,

That light its rays shall cast
From portals of the past.

A Lady with a Lamp shall stand
In the great history of the land,
A noble type of good,

Heroic womanhood.

Nor even shall be wanting here
The palm, the lily, and the spear,
The symbols that of yore

Saint Filomena bore.

To King Alfred, the Lover of Truth,
Brought a snow-white walrus-tooth,
Which he held in his brown right hand.

His figure was tall and stately,
Like a boy's his eye appeared ;
His hair was yellow as hay,

But threads of a silvery gray

Gleamed in his tawny beard, do I “

Hearty and hale was Othere,

His cheek had the color of oak;
With a kind of laugh in his speech,
Like the sea-tide on a beach,

As unto the King he spoke.

And Alfred, King of the Saxons,
Had a book upon his knees,
And wrote down the wondrous tale
Of him who was first to sail

Into the Arctic seas.