Of what is, and I, haply, overbold For what might be. But then the thrushes sang, The thrushes still sang in it. At the word While breaking into voluble ecstasy I flattered all the beauteous country round, Hills, vales, woods, netted in a silver mist, A SIMILE. Every age, We'll suppose Through being beheld too close, is ill-discerned To some colossal statue of a man. The peasants, gathering brushwood in his ear, Up there, in fact, had travelled five miles off To all the country pastures. 'Tis even thus MARIAN'S CHILD. There he lay upon his back, The yearling creature, warm and moist with life To keep him from the light-glare, both his cheeks While we stood there dumb, For oh, that it should take such innocence To prove just guilt, I thought, and stood there dumb, The light upon his eyelids pricked them wide, And, staring out at us w th all their blue, As half perplexed between the angelhood In change for heaven itself with such a smile As might have well been learnt there,―never moved, So happy (half with her and half with heaven) That blows in all the silence of its leaves, THE JOURNEY SOUTH. I just knew it when we swept Above the old roofs of Dijon: Lyons dropped Unseen. But presently the winding Rhone Washed out the moonlight large along his banks, Which strained their yielding curves out clear and clean So we passed The liberal open country and the close, And shot through tunnels, like a lightning-wedge By great Thor-hammers driven through the rock, Which, quivering through the intestine blackness, splits, And lets it in at once: the train swept in Athrob with effort, trembling with resolve, The fierce denouncing whistle wailing on And dying off smothered in the shuddering dark, While we, self-awed, drew troubled breath, oppressed As other Titans underneath the pile And nightmare of the mountains. Out, at last, For right-hand use, bared blue against the sky! I felt the wind soft from the land of souls; With spray of silver. Was stealing on us. myrtle and orange groves Genoa broke with day, The Doria's long pale palace striking out, From green hills in advance of the white town, A marble finger dominant to ships Seen glimmering through the uncertain gray of dawn. EMILY BRONTË. [EMILY BRONTE was born at Hartshead-cum-Clifton, near Leeds, in 1819, and lived at the parsonage at Haworth from 1820 to her death. The monotony of this existence was broken only by a brief attempt to be a governess and by a short stay at Brussels in 1842, all exile from home being excessively painful and hurtful to her. She died of consumption at Haworth on the 19th of December, 1848. She published, in conjunction with her sisters, Poems, by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell, in 1846, and, alone, the novel of Wuthering Heights in 1847. Not even the unstinted praise of three great and very dissimilar poets has given to Emily Brontë her due rank in popular esteem. Her work is not universally acceptable, even to imaginative readers ; her personality is almost repulsive to many who have schooled themselves to endure the vehemence of genius but not its ominous self-restraint. Most people were afraid of Emily Brontë's 'whitening face and set mouth' when she was alive, and even now that she is dead her memory seems to inspire more terror than affection. Against an instinctive repugnance it is in vain to reason, and in discussing her poetical quality we must assume that her power has at least been felt and not disliked by the reader, since 'you must love her, ere to you she should seem worthy to be loved.' Those who have come under the spell of her genius will expect no apology for her intellectual rebellion, her stoic harshness of purpose, her more than manlike strength. She was a native blossom of those dreary and fascinating moorlands of which Charlotte has given, in a few brilliant phrases, so perfect a description, and like the acrid heaths and gentians that flourish in the peat, to transplant her was to kill her. Her actions, like her writings, were strange, but consistent in their strangeness. Even the dreadful incident of her death, which occurred as she stood upright in the little parlour at Haworth, refusing to go to bed, but just leaning one hand upon |