And the great sky, the royal heaven | There came no murmur from the streams, Though nigh flowed Leither, Tweed, and Quair. above, Darkens with storms or melts in hues of love; The days hold on their wonted pace, While women keep the House of Quair. And one is clad in widow's weeds, Poured in a rill of song from each har-And monious throat. Shakespeare consoles Fills me with tender calm, Or through hushed heavens of soul Milton's deep thunder rolls! And more than all, o'er shattered The relics of a happier time and state, Shines on unquenched! O deathless love that lies In the clear midnight of those passionate eyes! Joy waneth! Fortune flies! What then? Thou still art here, soul of my soul, my Wife! ISA CRAIG KNOX. BALLAD OF THE BRIDES OF QUAIR. A STILLNESS crept about the house, The many-windowed House of Quair. The peacock on the terrace screamed; Browsed on the lawn the timid hare; The pool was still; around its brim day by day they seek the paths To see the trout leap in the streams, To hang o'er silver Tweed and Quair. Within, in pall-black velvet clad, Sits stately in her oaken chair- Her daughter broiders by her side, And listens to her frequent plaint, -- "Ill fare the brides that come to Quali "For more than one hath lived in pine, And more than one hath died of care And more than one hath sorely sinned, Left lonely in the House of Quair. "Alas! and ere thy father died Thy brother brings his bride to Quair.” She came; they kissed her in the hall, They kissed her on the winding stair, They led her to the chamber high, The fairest in the House of Quair. SPRING, with that nameless pathos in the At times a fragrant breeze comes floating air Which dwells with all things fair, Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain, Is with us once again. Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns In the deep heart of every forest tree And there's a look about the leafless As if they dreamed of flowers. Yet still on every side we trace the hand Save where the maple reddens on the Flushed by the season's dawn; Or where, like those strange semblances we find That age to childhood bind, by, And brings, you know not why, Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should WALTER F. MITCHELL. [U. s. A.] TACKING SHIP OFF SHORE. THE weather-leech of the topsail shivers, The bow-lines strain, and the lee-shrouds slacken, The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers, And the waves with the coming squallcloud blacken. The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, Open one point on the weather-bow, The brown of autumn corn. Is the lighthouse tall on Fire Island As yet the turf is dark, although you There's a shade of doubt on the captain's know brow, And the pilot watches the heaving lead. I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye The ship bends lower before the breeze, It is silence all, as each in his place, By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace, |