MORNING.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF GIOSUE CARDUCCI.

LAMP after lamp how the lights go trooping, Stretching behind the trees, dreamily yonder; Through the branches adrip with the shower The light slants and gleams on the puddles. Plaintively, shrilly, piercingly whistles

The glory my thoughts set around her.

There in the rain, in the dreary darkness
I turn me, and with them would mingle my
being;

I stagger; then touch myself grimly —
Not yet as a ghost am I moving.

O what a falling of leaves, never-ending,

heavens

Up above, and the Autumn morning
Ghostlike glimmers around me.

Whither and whence move the people hurrying
Into dark carriages, muffled and silent?
To what sorrows unknown are they rushing -
Long tortures of hopes that will tarry?

You too, oh fair one, are dreamily holding Your ticket now for the guard's sharp clipping

Ah, so clips Time, ever relentless,
Joys, memories, and years that are golden.
Far-stretching the dark train stands, and the
workmen

Black-capped, up and down keep moving like shadows;

In his hand bears each one a lantern,
And each one a hammer of irom.

And the iron they strike sends a hollow re

sounding

Mournful; and out of the heart an echo
Mournfully answers, a sudden

Dull pang of regret that is weary.

Now the hurrying slam of the doors grows insulting

And loud, and scornful the rapidly sounding
Summons to start and delay not;
The rain dashes hard on the windows.

Puffing, shuddering, panting, the monster
Now feels life stir in its limbs of iron,
And opens its eyes, and startles
The dim far space with a challenge.

Then on moves the evil thing, horribly trailing
Its length, and, beating its wings, bears from

I feel that forever around me

The earth has grown all one November.

Better to be without sense of existence
Better this gloom, and this shadow of dark-

ness.

Would I, ah, would I were sleeping
A dull sleep that lasteth forever.

H. COURTHOPE BOWEN.

Macmillan's Magazine.

THEN AND NOW.

THE sky was blue,

Our hearts were true,

Bright shone the sun that summer morn; The birds sang sweet,

And at our feet

Lay waving fields of yellow corn.

With love and faith

As strong as death,

Without a tear we turned away;

'Tis now we weep,

At one fell sweep

Our sun is hid, our sky is gray.

For pride is strong

When hearts are young;

And bitter words that once are spoken,
Return again

With maddening pain;

And faith and vows and hearts are broken. Chambers' Journal. MARY J. MURCHIE.

COWPER.

I

As o'er the hushed hills and the sleeping plain, After long hours, the weary watcher sees The night grow pale, and hears amid the trees The wind that swooned at even wake again; While one by one the starry clusters wane,

Till, lonely left, more silvery clear than these, Mild Phosphor rules the dawn's soft mysteries,

Ushering in Hyperion's golden reign;
So, taking simple nature for its theme,

Thy gentle song, inspired with purpose high,
Shot through the latter dusk a welcome gleam,
Gracing afresh the realms of Poesy,
And sparkling purely with its playful beam
In herald-radiance told of Wordsworth nigh.
Spectator.
HERBERT B. GARROD.