"How I longed, in that lonest of garrets,
Where the tiles baked my brains all July,
For ground to grow two pecks of carrots,
Two pigs of my own in a sty,

A rosebush, a little thatched cottage,

Two spoons-love—a basin of pottage!—
Now in freestone I sit,-and my dotage,—
With a woman's chair empty close by, close by!

"Ah! now, though I sit on a rock,

I have shared one seat with the great;

I have sat knowing naught of the clock-
On love's high throne of state;

But the lips that kissed, and the arms that caressed,
To a mouth grown stern with delay were pressed,
And circled a breast that their clasp had blessed,
Had they only not come too late,--too late!"
FITZ HUGH LUDLOW.

What the End shall be.

WHEN another life is added

To the heaving, turbid mass;
When another breath of being

Stains creation's tarnished glass;
When the first cry, weak and piteous,
Heralds long-enduring pain,
And a soul from non-existence

Springs, that ne'er can die again;
When the mother's passionate welcome,
Sorrow-like, bursts forth in tears,
And a sire's self-gratulation

Prophesies of future years.—

It is well we cannot see

What the end shall be.

When across the infant features

Trembles the faint dawn of mind,

And the heart looks from the windows
Of the eyes that were so blind;
When the inarticulate murmurs
Syllable each swaddled thought,
To the fond ear of affection

With a boundless promise fraught;
Kindling great hopes for to-morrow
From that dull, uncertain ray,
As by glimmering of the twilight
Is foreshown the perfect day,-

It is well we cannot see
What the end shall be.

When the boy, upon the threshold
Of his all-comprising home,
Puts aside the arm maternal

That enlocks him ere he roam;
When the canvas of his vessel
Flutters to the favoring gale,
Years of solitary exile

Hid behind the sunny sail:
When his pulses beat with ardor,
And his sinews stretch for toil,
And a hundred bold emprises
Lure him to that eastern soil,—

It is well we cannot see
What the end shall be.

When the youth beside the maiden
Looks into her credulous eyes,
And the heart upon the surface
Shines too happy to be wise;
He by speeches less than gestures
Hinteth what her hopes expound,
Laying out the waste hereafter

Like enchanted garden-ground;

He may falter--so do many;
She may suffer so must all:

Both may yet, world-disappointed,
This lost hour of love recall,—

It is well we cannot see

What the end shall be.

When the altar of religion

Greets the expectant bridal pair, And the vow that lasts till dying Vibrates on the sacred air; When man's lavish protestations Doubts of after-change defy, Comforting the frailer spirit

Bound his servitor for aye;

When beneath love's silver moonbeams
Many rocks in shadow sleep,
Undiscovered, till possession
Shows the danger of the deep,-

It is well we cannot see
What the end shall be.

Whatsoever is beginning,

That is wrought by human skill, Every daring emanation

Of the mind's ambitious will; Every first impulse of passion, Gush of love or twinge of hate, Every launch upon the waters Wide-horizoned by our fate; Every venture in the chances

Of life's sad, oft desperate game,
Whatsoever be our motive,
Whatsoever be our aim,-

It is well we cannot see
What the end shall be.

FRANCES BROWNE. (?)

The Two Worlds.

Two worlds there are. To one our eyes we strain,
Whose magic joys we shall not see again;

Bright haze of morning veils its glimmering shore.
Ah, truly breathed we there
Intoxicating air—

Glad were our hearts in that sweet realm of

Nevermore.

The lover there drank her delicious breath
Whose love has yielded since to change or death;
The mother kissed her child, whose days are o'er.
Alas! too soon have fled

The irreclaimable dead:

We see them-visions strange-amid the
Nevermore.

The merrysome maiden used to sing

The brown, brown hair that once was wont to cling To temples long clay-cold: to the very core They strike our weary hearts,

As some vexed memory starts

From that long faded land—the realm of
Nevermore.

It is perpetual summer there. But here
Sadly may we remember rivers clear,

And harebells quivering on the meadow-floor.
For brighter bells and bluer,

For tenderer hearts and truer
People that happy land-the realm of
Nevermore.

Upon the frontier of this shadowy land

We pilgrims of eternal sorrow stand:

What realm lies forward, with its happier store

Of forests green and deep,

Of valleys hushed in sleep,

And lakes most peaceful? 'T is the land of
Evermore.

Very far off its marble cities seem-
Very far off-beyond our sensual dream-

Its woods, unruffled by the wild wind's roar,
Yet does the turbulent surge

Howl on its very verge.

Que moment-and we breathe within the
Everinore.

They whom we loved and lost so long ago

Dwell in those cities, far from mortal wo

Haunt those fresh woodlands, whence sweet carolings

soar.

Eternal peace have they;

God wipes their tears away:

They drink that river of life which flows from
Evermore.

Thither we hasten through these regions dim,
But, lo, the wide wings of the Seraphim

Shine in the sunset! On that joyous shore
Our lightened hearts shall know

The life of long ago:

The sorrow-burdened past shall fade for

Evermore.

MORTIMER COLLINS

Rain on the Roof.

WHEN the humid shadows hover

Over all the starry spheres,
And the melancholy darkness
Gently weeps in rainy tears,