though framed after the Shakspearian model. A Life of Fane was published (1871) by Lord Lytton, who says of the two sonnets, dated 1870: "On the evening of the 12th of March, 1870, his physical suffering was excessive. The following day was the birthday of his mother." She found what she "dared not, could not anticipate." There lay upon the table a letter with the two sonnets. "They are the last words ever written by Julian Fane. But this golden chain of votive verse *** was not broken till life itself had left the hand that wrought it." When all things sweet and fair are cloaked in shrouds, And dire calamity and care have birth; AD MATREM. MARCH 13, 1862. Oft in the after-days, when thou and I AD MATREM. MARCH 13, 1864. Music, and frankincense of flowers, belong What is it that Love chants? thy perfect praise. To think how poor my love compared with thine! AD MATREM. MARCH 13, 1870. When the vast heaven is dark with ominous clouds, That lower their gloomful faces to the earth; Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Rossetti was born in London in 1828; the son of Mr. Gabriel Rossetti (1783-1854), Professor of Italian at King's College, and author of a Commentary on Dante. A poet, Rossetti is also an artist, and one of the originators of the so-called Pre-Raphaelite school of painting. He published in 1870 a volume of poems; also a work on the early Italian poets. Mr. Stedman, in his "Victorian Poets," says of him: "He approaches Tennyson in simplicity, purity, and richness of tone. His verse is compact of tenderness, emotional ecstasy, and poetic fre." LOST DAYS: SONNET. The lost days of my life until to-day, FROM "THE PORTRAIT." This is her picture as she was: It seems a thing to wonder on, As though mine image in the glass Should tarry when myself am gone. I gaze until she seems to stir,-Until mine eyes almost aver 1 It will be remarked that this sonnet has but thirteen lines. A native of Dorchester, now a part of Boston, Mass., Cook was born September 8th, 1828. He was fitted for Harvard College, which he entered, and was duly graduated. As a writer on art and kindred subjects, he has won well-merited distinction. His residence is the city of New York. His poems are scattered through the magazines, but are well worthy of being collected into a volume. His "Abram and Zimri" is one of the most charming narrative poems in the language. ABRAM AND ZIMRI. Abram and Zimri owned a field together- They ploughed it with one plough, and in the spring Sowed, walking side by side, the fruitful seed. Down to the field, and add to his from mine." So Zimri, guided by the shifting light, I will arise and gird myself, and go So he arose and girded up his loins, Walter Thornbury. Thornbury (1828-1876) was the son of a London solicitor, and by baptism his first name was George, which he dropped. His poetical works were: "Lays and Legends of the New World," 1851; "Songs of Cavaliers and Roundheads," 1857; and "Historical and Legendary Ballads and Songs," 1875. He was the author of some six or seven novels, and was for some years art-critic to the Athenæum. As a tourist, he wrote "Experiences in the United States," also Life in Turkey." He toiled on till within a few days of his death, which came suddenly; the result of over-brain-work. HOW SIR RICHARD DIED. The love-locks from his sable hair; Took off his watch, "Give that to Ned, I've done with time," he proudly said. 'Twas bitter cold-it made him shake. Said one "Ah! see the villain's look!" Sir Richard, with a scornful frown, Cried, "Frost, not fear, my body shook!" Giving a gold-piece to the slave, He laughed, "Now praise me, master knave!" They pointed, with a sneering smile, Unto a black box, long and grim; But no white shroud, or badge of death, Had power to draw a tear from him; "It needs no lock," he said in jest, "This chamber where to-night I rest." Then crying out-"God save the King!" THE OLD GRENADIER'S STORY. TOLD ON A BENCH OUTSIDE THE INVALIDES. "Twas the day beside the Pyramids,- That Kleber's Foot stood firm in squares, The Mamelukes were tossing Their standards to the sky, When I heard a child's voice say, "My men, Teach me the way to die!" "Twas a little drummer, with his side Torn terribly with shot; But still he feebly beat his drum, "My mother has got other sons, With stouter hearts than mine, Yet still life's sweet," the brave lad moaned, "Fair are this earth and sky; Then, comrades of the Forty-third, I saw Salenche, of the granite heart, It was by far more pitiful Than mere loud sobs and cries. One bit his cartridge till his lip Grew black as winter sky, But still the boy moaned, "Forty-third, Teach me the way to die!" Oh never saw I sight like that! The sergeant flung down flag, Even the fifer bound his brow With a wet and bloody rag; Then looked at locks, and fixed their steel, But never made reply, Until he sobbed out once again, "Teach me the way to die!" Then, with a shout that flew to God, They strode into the fray; I saw their red plumes join and wave, But slowly melt away. The last who went-a wounded man— Bade the poor boy good-bye, And said, "We men of the Forty-third Teach you the way to die!" I never saw so sad a look As the poor youngster cast, When the hot smoke of cannon In cloud and whirlwind passed. Earth shook, and Heaven answered: I watched his eagle-eye, As he faintly moaned, "The Forty-third Teach me the way to die!" Then, with a musket for a crutch, He limped unto the fight; I, with a bullet in my hip, Had neither strength nor might. But, proudly beating on his drum, A fever in his eye, I heard him moan, "The Forty-third Taught me the way to die!" They found him on the morrow, Who at his bidding bled. They hung a medal round his neck, And closed his dauntless eye; On the stone they cut, "The Forty-third Taught him the way to die!" 'Tis forty years from then till nowThe grave gapes at my feet- Yet when I think of such a boy, I feel my old heart beat. And from my sleep I sometimes wake, Hearing a feeble cry, And a voice that says, "Now, Forty-third, Teach me the way to die!" William Allingham. Allingham (1828-....) is a native of Ballyshannon, County of Donegal, Ireland. Removing to England, he obtained an appointment in the Customs. His publications are: "Poems," 1850; "Day and Night Songs," 1854; "Laurence Bloomfield in Ireland" (a poem in twelve chapters), 1864; and "Fifty Modern Poems," 1865. For several years he was editor of Fraser's Magazine, but retired from the editorship in 1879. SONG. O Spirit of the Summer-time! Bring back the friendship of the sun; The gilded evenings, calm and late, When merry children homeward run, And peeping stars bid lovers wait. Bring back the singing; and the scent Of meadow-lands at dewy prime ;Oh bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summer-time! THE TOUCHSTONE. A man there came, whence none could tell, A thousand transformations rose From fair to foul, from foul to fair; The golden crown he did not spare, Nor scorn the beggar's clothes. Of heirloom jewels, prized so much, Then angrily the people cried, And, since they could not so avail But though they slew him with the sword, And when, to stop all future harm, They strewed its ashes on the breeze, They little guessed each grain of these Conveyed the perfect charm. AUTUMNAL SONNET. Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods, |