Hark! below the gates unbarring!
Tramp of men and quick commands!-
"Tis my lord come back from hunting-"
And the Duchess claps her hands.

Slow and tired, came the hunters; Stopped in darkness in the court. "Ho, this way, ye laggard hunters!

To the hall! What sport? What sport?"

Slow they entered with their Master;
In the hall they laid him down.
On his coat were leaves and blood-stains,
On his brow an angry frown.

Dead her princely youthful husband
Lay before his youthful wife;
Bloody 'neath the flaring sconces:
And the sight froze all her life.

In Vienna, by the Danube,

Kings hold revel, gallants meet.
Gay of old amid the gayest
Was the Duchess Marguerite.

In Vienna, by the Danube,

Feast and dance her youth beguiled.
Till that hour she never sorrowed;
But from then she never smiled.

SUMMER MOON.

ROBERT BUCHANAN.

Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, across the west you fly, You gaze on half the earth at once with sweet and stead

fast eye;

Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, were I aloft with thee, I know that I could look upon my boy who sails at sea,

Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, you throw your silver showers

Upon a glassy sea that lies round shores of fruit and flowers,

The blue tide trembles on the shore, with murmuring as of bees,

And the shadow of the ship lies dark near shades of orange trees.

Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, now wind and storm have fled,

Your light creeps thro' a cabin-pane and lights a flaxen head:

He tosses with his lips apart, lies smiling in your gleam, For underneath his folded lids you put a gentle dream.

Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, his head is on his arm, He stirs with balmy breath and sees the moonlight on the Farm,

He stirs and breathes his mother's name, he smiles and

sees once more

The Moon above, the fields below, the shadow at the door.

Summer Moon, O'Summer Moon, across the lift you go, Far south you gaze and see my Boy, where groves of orange grow!

Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, you turn again to me, And seem to have the smile of him who sleeps upon the

sea.

MY LANDLADY.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

A small brisk woman, capped with many a bow; "Yes," so she says, and younger, too, than some,' Who bids me, bustling, “God speed " when I go, And gives me, rustling, “Welcome

" when I come.

"Ay, sir! 'tis cold,-and freezing hard,-they say;
I'd like to give that hulking brute a hit-
Beating his horse in such a shameful way!
Step here, sir, till your fire's blazed up a bit.”

A musky haunt of lavender and shells,

Quaint-figured Chinese monsters, toys, and traysA life's collection-where each object tells

Of fashions gone and half-forgotten ways:

A glossy screen, where wide-mouth dragons ramp;
A vexed inscription in a sampler-frame;
A shade of beads upon a red-capped lamp;
A child's mug graven with a golden name;

A pictured ship, with full-blown canvas set;
A cord, with sea-weed twisted to a wreath,
Circling a silky curl as black as jet,

With yellow writing faded underneath.

Looking, I sink within the shrouded chair,
And note the objects slowly, one by one,
And light at last upon a portrait there,-

Wide-collared, raven-haired, "Yes, 'tis my son!"

"Where is he?" "Ah, sir, he is dead-my boy!
Nigh ten long years ago—in 'sixty-three;
He's always living in my head-my boy!
He was left drowning in the Southern Sea.

"There were two souls washed overboard, they said,
And one the waves brought back, but he was left.
They saw him place the life-buoy o'er his head;
The sea was running wildly; he was left.

"He was a strong, strong swimmer. Do you know,
When the wind whistled yesternight, I cried,
And prayed to God. . . though 'twas so long ago,
He did not struggle much before he died.

"'Twas his third voyage. That's the box he brought,—
Or would have brought-my poor deserted boy!
And these the words the agents sent-they thought
That money, perhaps, could make my loss a joy.

"Look, sir, I've something here that I prize more:
This is a fragment of the poor lad's coat,—
That other clutched him as the wave went o'er,
And this stayed in his hand. That's what they wrote.

"Well, well, 'tis done. My story's shocking you;-
Grief is for them that have both time and wealth:
We can't mourn much, that have much work to do;
Your fire is bright. Thank God, I have my health!"

THE LIBERTY BELL.

AUTHOR UNKNOWN.

There was tumult in the city,
In the quaint old Quaker town,
And the streets were rife with people
Pacing restless up and down;
People gathering at corners,

Where they whispered each to each,
And the sweat stood on their temples,
With the earnestness of speech.

As the bleak Atlantic currents

Lash the wild Newfoundland shore,
So they beat against the State House,
So they surged against the door;
And the mingling of their voices
Made a harmony profound,
Till the quiet street of chestnuts,
Was all turbulent with sound.

"Will they do it?" "Dare they do it?"

"Who is speaking?"

66 What's the news?"

"What of Adams?" "What of Sherman?"

"Oh, God grant they wont refuse!"

"Make some way there!" "Let me nearer!"
"I am stifling!" "Stifle, then;

When a nation's life's at hazard,

We've no time to think of men!"

So they beat against the portal,—
Man and woman, maid and child;
And the July sun in heaven

On the scene looked down and smiled;
The same sun that saw the Spartan
Shed his patriot blood in vain,
Now beheld the soui of freedom
All unconquered rise again,

Aloft in that high steeple

Sat the bellman, old and gray;
He was weary of the tyrant
And his iron-sceptred sway;
So he sat with one hand ready
On the clapper of the bell,
When his eye should catch the signal,
Of the glorious news to tell.

See! see! the dense crowd quivers
Through all its lengthy line,
As the boy beside the portal
Looks forth to give the sign!
With his small hands upward lifted,
Breezes dallying with his hair,
Hark! with deep, clear intonation,
Breaks his young voice on the air.

Hushed the people's swelling murmur,
List the boy's strong joyous cry!
"Ring!" he shouts aloud; "RING! Grandpa !
Ring! Oh, RING for LIBERTY!"

And straightway, at the signal,

The old bellman lifts his hand,
And sends the good news, making
Iron music through the land.

How they shouted! What rejoicing!
How the old bell shook the air,
Till the clang of freedom ruffled
The calm gliding Delaware!
How the bonfires and the torches
Shone upon the night's repose,
And from the flames, like Phoenix,
Fair Liberty arose !