e writes: "I should grow very weary of life if I did not eel that I had God for friend." His marriage was an xceptionally happy one. He not only wrote poetry, out made life a poem. Says one of his friends: "He rejoiced in diffusing gladness; was intensely gentle and tender, and peculiarly sensitive to kindness." By intuition he seemed to have a thorough faith in God and a future life. His writings indicate a highly poetical temperament, and he preserved his intellectual vigor and kindly nature to the last.

FIRST OF APRIL, 1876.

Now, if to be an April-fool

Is to delight in the song of the thrush, To long for the swallow in air's blue hollow, And the nightingale's riotous music-gush, And to paint a vision of cities Elysian Out away in the sunset-flush

Then I grasp my flagon and swear thereby, We are April-fools, my Love and I.

And if to be an April-fool

Is to feel contempt for iron and gold, For the shallow fame at which most men aimAnd to turn from worldlings cruel and cold To God in His splendor, loving and tender, And to bask in His presence manifold— Then by all the stars in His infinite sky, We are April-fools, my Love and I.

A moment-death's dull sleep is o'er; and we Drink the immortal morning air Eäriné.

THE POSITIVISTS.

Life and the universe show spontaneity:
Down with ridiculous notions of Deity,

Churches and creeds are all lost in the mists;
Truth must be sought with the Positivists.

Wise are their teachers beyond all comparison,
Comte, Huxley, Tyndall, Mill, Morley, and Harrison:
Who will adventure to enter the lists
With such a squadron of Positivists?

Social arrangements are awful miscarriages; Cause of all crime is our system of marriages. Poets with sonnets and lovers with trysts Kindle the ire of the Positivists.

Husbands and wives should be all one community,
Exquisite freedom with absolute unity.

Wedding-rings worse are than manacled wrists,
Such is the creed of the Positivists.

There was an ape in the days that are earlier;
Centuries passed, and his hair became curlier;

Centuries more gave a thumb to his wrist-
Then he was MAN,-and a Positivist.

If you are pious (mild form of insanity),
Bow down and worship the mass of humanity.
Other religions are buried in mists:
"We're our own gods!" say the Positivists.

IN VIEW OF DEATH.

No: I shall pass into the Morning Land

As now from sleep into the life of morn; Live the new life of the new world, unshorn Of the swift brain, the executing hand;

See the dense darkness suddenly withdrawn,
As when Orion's sightless eyes discerned the dawn.

I shall behold it: I shall see the utter
Glory of sunrise heretofore unseen,
Freshening the woodland ways with brighter
green,

And calling into life all wings that flutter,
All throats of music and all eyes of light,

And driving o'er the verge the intolerable night.

O virgin world! O marvellous far days!

No more with dreams of grief doth love grow bitter,

Nor trouble dim the lustre wont to glitter In happy eyes. Decay alone decays:

COLLINS'S LAST VERSES.

I have been sitting alone

All day while the clouds went by, While moved the strength of the seas, While a wind with a will of his own, A Poet out of the sky,

Smote the green harp of the trees.

Alone, yet not alone,

For I felt, as the gay wind whirled,
As the cloudy sky grew clear,

The touch of our Father half-known,
Who dwells at the heart of the world,
Yet who is always here.

Mrs. Ethel Lynn Beers.

AMERICAN.

Ethelinda Elliott (1827-1879) was born and educated in Goshen, Orange County, N. J. She began to write for the weekly and monthly periodicals under the pseudonyme of Ethel Lynn, which she retained after her marriage. A volume of poems from her pen appeared shortly before her death. Her poem of "The Picket-guard," which first appeared in Harper's Weekly, November, 1861, was afterward claimed, erroneously it would seem, for Major Lamar Fontaine of Texas. It also appeared in "The War Poetry of the South," edited by William Gilmore Simms. In a private letter Mrs. Beers wrote: "The poor 'Picket' has had so many 'authentic' claimants and willing sponsors, that I sometimes question myself whether I did really write it that cool September morning af ter reading the stereotyped announcement, 'All quiet,' etc., to which was added in small type, 'A picket shot!'"

And gathers his gun closer up to its place, As if to keep down the heart-swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree—
The footstep is lagging and weary;
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,
Toward the shades of the forest so dreary.
Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing!
It looked like a rifle-"Ah! Mary, good-bye!"
And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
No sound save the rush of the river;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead-
The picket's off duty forever!

John Townsend Trowbridge.

AMERICAN.

Trowbridge was born in Ogden, N. Y., in 1827. He received a good common school education, but was largely self-taught mastering the Latin, French, and German languages. He went to New York in 1846, applied himself to literature, encountered gallantly some of the experiences of the unknown and impecunious author, removed to Boston in 1850, wrote "Father Bright Hopes," a story for the young, then several novels which had a good sale: he contributed largely to the leading magazines, published "The Emigrant's Story, and other Poems," in 1875; and "The Book of Gold, and other Poems," in 1877. He is also the author of "Guy Brown," a novelette in verse, published in The Masque of the Poets" (Roberts Brothers, Boston, 1878); and of some half-dozen successful stories for the young. It is in his poetry that Trowbridge excels. "The Vagabonds" has been neatly illustrated by Darley. It is one of the happy hits that are not soon forgotten.

BEYOND.

From her own fair dominions,

Long since, with shorn pinions,

My spirit was banished:

But above her still hover, in vigils and dreams, Ethereal visitants, voices, and gleams,

That forever remind her

Of something behind her
Long vanished.

Through the listening night,

With mysterious flight,

Pass those winged intimations:

Like stars shot from heaven, their still voices fall

to me;

Far and departing, they signal and call to me,

Strangely beseeching me,

Chiding, yet teaching me

Patience.

Then at times, oh! at times,

To their luminous climes

I pursue as a swallow!

To the river of Peace, and its solacing shades,

To the haunts of my lost ones, in heavenly glades, With strong aspirations

Their pinions', vibrations

I follow.

O heart! be thon patient! Though here I am stationed

A season in durance,

The chain of the world I will cheerfully wear;

For, spanning my soul like a rainbow, I bear,
With the yoke of my lowly
Condition, a holy
Assurance,

That never in vain

Does the spirit maintain

Her eternal allegiance:

Though suffering and yearning, like Infancy learning
Its lesson, we linger; then skyward returning,
On plumes fully grown
We depart to our own
Native regions!

THE VAGABONDS.

We are two travellers, Roger and I.
Roger's my dog-come here, you scamp!
Jump for the gentleman-mind your eye!
Over the table-look out for the lamp!
The rogue is growing a little old;

Five years we've tramped through wind and weather,

And slept out-doors when nights were cold,

And ate and drank and starved together.

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you-
A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,

A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow!
The paw he holds up there's been frozen),
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle

(This out-door business is bad for strings), Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings.

No, thank ye, sir-I never drink;

Roger and I are exceedingly moral.

Aren't we, Roger?-see him wink!

Well, something hot, then-we won't quarrel. He's thirsty, too-see him nod his head:

What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk!

He understands every word that's said,

And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.

The truth is, sir, now I reflect,

I've been so sadly given to grog,

I wonder I've not lost the respect (Here's to you, sir!) even of my dog. But he sticks by through thick and thin;

And this old coat, with its empty pockets

And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,

He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

There isn't another creature living

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving

To such a miserable, thankless master!
No, sir-see him wag his tail and grin!
By George! it makes my old eyes water!
That is, there's something in this gin

That chokes a fellow. But no matter.

We'll have some music if you're willing,

And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, sir!) Shall march a little. Start, you villain!

Stand straight! 'Bout face! Salute your officer! Put up that paw! Dress! Take your rifle!

(Some dogs have arms, you see!) Now hold your Cap while the gentleman gives a trifle

To aid a poor old patriot soldier.

March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes
When he stands up to hear his sentence.
Now tell us how many drams it takes

To honor a jolly new acquaintance.
Five yelps-that's five; he's mighty knowing.
The night's before us, fill the glasses!
Quick, sir! I'm ill-my brain is going!
Some brandy-thank you-there! it passes!

Why not reform? That's easily said;

But I've gone through such wretched treatment, Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,

And scarce remembering what meat meant, That my poor stomach's past reform;

And there are times when, mad with thinking,

I'd sell out heaven for something warm
To prop a horrible inward sinking.

Is there a way to forget to think?
At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends,
A dear girl's love- But I took to drink—
The same old story; you know how it ends.
If you could have seen these classic features—
You needn't laugh, sir; they were not then
Such a burning libel on God's creatures;
I was one of your handsome men!

If you had seen her, so fair and young,
Whose head was happy on this breast,

If you could have heard the songs I sung
When the wine went round, you wouldn't have
guessed

Julian Charles Henry Fane (1827-1870), a native of London, was "a poet, a musician, a linguist, a diplomatist, an eloquent speaker, a wit, a mimic, a delightful. talker." So says Mr. John Dennis, a contemporary man of letters. In conjunction with his friend Edward Robert Bulwer (afterward Lord Lytton), Fane published "Tannhäuser; or, the Battle of the Bards-a Poem" (1861). He had previously published (1852) a volume of poems, a second edition of which, with additional notes, appeared in 1853. His Sonnets to his Mother (Ad Matrem) are remarkable specimens of this form of composition, al