For they can lure no further; and the ray Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday,

Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers,
And shining in the brawling brook, whereby,
Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours
With a calm languor, which, though to the eye
Idlesse it seem, hath its morality.
If froin society we learn to live,
'T is solitude should teach us how to die;

It hath no flatterers; vanity can give
No hollow aid; alone man with his God must strive.

Lord Byron.

THREE

ARQUÀ.
THREE leagues from Padua stands and long has

stood
(The Paduan student knows it, honors it)
A lonely tomb beside a mountain-church;
And I arrived there as the sun declined
Low in the west. The gentle airs, that breathe
Fragrance at eve, were rising, and the birds
Singing their farewell song, the very song
They sung the night that tomb received a tenant ;
When, as alive, clothed in his canon's stole,
And slowly winding down the narrow path,
He came to rest there. Nobles of the land,
Princes and prelates mingled in his train,
Anxious by any act, while yet they could,
To catch a ray of glory by reflection ;

And from that hour have kindred spirits flocked From distant countries, from the north, the south, To see where he is laid.

Twelve years ago, When I descended the impetuous Rhone, Its vineyards of such great and old renown, Its castles, each with some romantic tale, Vanishing fast, the pilot at the stern, He who had steered so long, standing aloft, His eyes on the white breakers, and his hands On what was now his rudder, now his oar, A huge misshapen plank, — the bark itself Frail and uncouth, launched to return no more, Such as a shipwrecked man might hope to build, Urged by the love of home. Twelve years ago, When like an arrow from the cord we flew, Two long, long days, silence, suspense on board, It was to offer at thy fount, Vaucluse, Entering the arched cave, to wander where Petrarch had wandered, to explore and sit Where in his peasant-dress he loved to sit, Musing, reciting, on some rock moss-grown, Or the fantastic root of some old beech, That drinks the living waters as they stream Over their emerald-bed; and could I now Neglect the place where, in a graver mood, When he had done and settled with the world, When all the illusions of his youth were fled, Indulged perhaps too much, cherished too long, He came for the conclusion ? Half-way up He built his house, whence as by stealth he caught,

Among the hills, a glimpse of busy life
That soothed, not stirred. But knock, and enter in.
This was his chamber. 'T is as when he went;
As if he now were in his orchard-grove.
And this his closet. Here he sat and read.
This was his chair; and in it, unobserved,
Reading, or thinking of his absent friends,
He passed away as in a quiet slumber.

Peace to this region! Peace to each, to all!
They know his value, - every coming step,
That draws the gazing children from their play,
Would tell them if they knew not. But could aught
Ungentle or ungenerous spring up
Where he is sleeping ; where, and in an age
Of savage warfare and blind bigotry,
He cultured all that could refine, exalt;
Leading to better things ?

Samuel Rogers.

WRITTEN IN PETRARCH'S HOUSE.

PETRARCH! I would that there might be

In this thy household sanctuary
No visible monument of thee :

The fount that whilom played before thee,
The roof that rose in shelter o’er thee,
The low fair hills that still adore thee,
I would no more; thy memory
Must loathe all cold reality,
Thought-worship only is for thee.

They say thy tomb lies there below;
What want I with the marble show?
I am content, - I will not go :

For though by poesy's high grace
Thou saw'st, in thy calm resting-place,
God, love, and nature face to face;

Yet now that thou art wholly free,
How can it give delight to see
That sign of thy captivity ?

Lord Houghton.

HIGH

nevermore

IGH on Aspromonte flashed the red shirts early,

Up in the midst of them the glory of his face, Low on Aspromonte, ere the day was over,

He was down and bleeding, bound in helpless case. Hands of brothers poured that crimson, Tears can wash it from the holy Tricolor. Alas ! alas ! could they hit him where he stood, Himself thrown between the ranks, with passion

ate cries Calling on them but to spare each other's blood,

And so, falling, gave himself a sacrifice. O the pity and the passion of that morrow,

When, all lost, all ended, he the invincible

Lay there stricken in his ruin and his sorrow,

Prisoner in the hands of those he loved too well.

Over rugged mountain-patlis without complaint Carried througlı long hours of torture, white and faint,

By the faithful, sileut in bis silence all,

Marching slow and soft as at a funeral. Overhead all day the scorching August quivered,

While the laurel leaves looked sadness, shading him, As they bore him from the land he had delivered,

Helpless, shattered, lot with anguish heart and limb; No salute or sign or murmur as he passed ; But once, looking up, he waved his hand at last : Farewell! - kneeling on the shore the people shivered, Stretching out their hands long after the white sails had grown dim.

Anonymous.

Assisi.

THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS.

UP soared the lark into the air,

,
A shaft of song, a winged prayer,
As if a soul, released from pain,
Were flying back to heaven again.

St. Francis heard ; it was to him
An emblem of the Seraphim ;