We found a heaven in every spot; Saw angels, too, in all good men ; And dreamed of God in grove and grot.

In summer, when the days are long, Alone I wander, muse alone.

I see her not; but that old song Under the fragrant wind is blown,

In summer, when the days are long.

Alone I wander in the wood:
But one fair spirit hears my sighs;
And half I see, so glad and good,
The honest daylight of her eyes,

That charmed me under earlier skies.

In summer, when the days are long,

I love her as we loved of old.

My heart is light, my step is strong;

"Alas!" these pilgrims said, "For the living and the dead,

gold,

In summer, when the days are long.

For the wrecks of land and sea! But, however it came to thee, Thine, stranger, is life's last and heaviest loss."

FRANCES BROWNE.

LOSSES.

UPON the white sea-sand
There sat a pilgrim band,

Telling the losses that their lives had known;

While evening waned away From breezy cliff and bay, And the strong tides went out with weary

moan.

One spake, with quivering lip,
Of a fair freighted ship,

With all his household to the deep gone down;

But one had wilder woe, For a fair face, long ago Lost in the darker depths of a great town.

There were who mourned their youth

With a most loving ruth,

My coat is a coarse ane, an' yours may be fine,

green;

And one upon the west Turned an eye that would not rest, For far-off hills whereon its joys had

been.

drink wine;

Amid the uproar of the storm,

And by the lightning's sharp, red glare,

Were seen Lee's face and sturdy form; His axe glanced quick in air: Whose corpse at morn is floating in the sedge?

There's blood and hair, Mat, on thy axe's edge.

THE SPECTRE HORSE.

HE's now upon the spectre's back,

With rein of silk and curb of gold. 'Tis fearful speed!--the rein is slack Within his senseless hold; Upborne by an unseen power, he onward rides,

Yet touches not the shadow-beast he strides.

He goes with speed; he goes with dread! And now they're on the hanging steep!

And, now! the living and the dead,

They 'll make the horrid leap! The horse stops short;-his feet are on the verge.

He stands, like marble, high above the surge.

And, nigh, the tall ship yet burns on, With red, hot spars, and crackling flame.

From hull to gallant, nothing's gone. She burns, and yet 's the same! Her hot, red flame is beating, all the night,

On man and horse, in their cold, phosphor light.

Through that cold light the fearful man Sits looking on the burning ship. He ne'er again will curse and ban. How fast he moves the lip! And yet he does not speak, or make a sound!

What see you, Lee? the bodies of the