Now, beside the rushing Danube,
Still its ruined walls remain,
Telling of the hermit's patience,
And the zeal of CHARLEMAGNE.

William Winter.

ORGIA.

IO cares for nothing, alone is free—

WHO

(Sit down, good fellow, and drink with me).

With a careless heart and a merry eye,

He will laugh at the world as the world goes by.
He laughs at power, and wealth, and fame:
He laughs at virtue-he laughs at shame.

He laughs at hope, and he laughs at fear;
At Memory's dead leaves, crisp and sere.
He laughs at the future, cold and dim-
Nor earth nor heaven is dear to him.
Oh, that is the comrade fit for me!
He cares for nothing-his soul is free!
Free as the soul of the fragrant wine;
Sit down, good fellow, my heart is thine.
For I heed not custom, creed, nor law :
I care for nothing that ever I saw.

In every city my cups I quaff;
And over my liquor I riot and laugh,

I laugh like the cruel and turbulent wave,

I laugh in the church and I laugh at the grave.

I laugh at joy, and well I know

That I merrily, merrily laugh at woe.

I terribly laugh, with an oath and a sneer,
When I think that the hour of death is near.

For I know that Death is a guest divine,
Who shall drink my blood as I drink this wine.

And he cares for nothing! a king is he!
Come on, old fellow, and drink with me!

With you I will drink to the solemn Past,
Though the cup that I drain should be my last.

I will drink to the phantoms of Love and Truth; To ruined manhood and wasted youth.

I will drink to the woman who wrought my woe In the diamond morning of long ago.

To a heavenly face in sweet repose !

To the lily's snow and the blood of the rose!

To the splendour caught from Orient skies,
That thrilled in the dark of her hazel eyes;

Her large eyes, wild with the fire of the South;
And the dewy wine of her warm, red mouth!

I will drink to the shadow of coming doom!
To the phantoms that wait in my lonely tomb!

I will drink to my soul, in its terrible mood,
Dimly and solemnly understood.

And, last of all, to the Monarch of Sin,

Who has conquered that palace and reigns within!

My song is passing; it dies away;

I cannot tell is it night or day. . . .

My heart is burnt and blackened with pain,
And a horrible darkness crushes my brain.

I cannot see you—the end is nigh—
But we'll laugh together before I die!

Through awful chasms I plunge and fall:
Your hand, good fellow !—I die—that's all !

BESIDE THE SEA.

THEY

I.

HEY walked beside the Summer sea, And watched the slowly dying sun; "And oh," she said, 66 I come back to me,

My love, my dear, my only one !" But while he kissed her fears away,

The gentle waters kissed the shore,

And, sadly whispering, seemed to say,

"He'll come no more! he'll come no more!"

II.

Alone beside the Autumn sea

She watched the sombre death of day;

"And oh," she said, "remember me

And love me, darling, far away!"

A cold wind swept the watery gloom,
And, darkly whispering on the shore,
Sighed out the secret of his doom,—

"He'll come no more! he'll come no more!"

III.

In peace beside the Winter sea

A white grave glimmers in the moon;
And waves are fresh, and clouds are free,
And shrill winds pipe a careless tune.
One sleeps beneath the dark blue wave,
And one upon the lonely shore;

But joined, in love, beyond the grave,
They part no more! they part no more!

THE

AFTER ALL.

HE apples are ripe in the orchard,
The work of the reaper is done,
And the golden woodlands redden
In the blood of the dying sun.

At the cottage door the grandsire
Sits, pale, in his easy-chair,
While the gentle wind of twilight
Plays with his silver hair.

A woman is kneeling beside him,—
A fair young form is pressed,
In the first wild passion of sorrow,
Against his aged breast.

And, far from over the distance,
The faltering echoes come
Of the flying blast of trumpet

And the rattling roll of drum.

Then the grandsire speaks, in a whisper

"The end no man can see;

But we give him to his country,

And we give our prayers to Thee."

The violets star the meadows,

The rose-buds fringe the door,

And over the grassy orchard

The pink-white blossoms pour.

But the grandsire's chair is empty,

The cottage is dark and still;

....

There's a nameless grave on the battle-field, And a new one under the hill.

From tender May

That never the echoing blast
Of bugle-horns merry, and fast