broad streak of orange melting into gold along the mountain tops of Vivarais. A solemn glee possessed in my mind at this gradual and lovely coming in of day. I heard the runnel with delight; I looked round me for something beautiful and unexpected; but the still black pine trees, the hollow glade, the munching ass, remained unchanged in figure. Nothing had altered but the light, and that, indeed, shed over all a spirit of life and of breathing peace, and moved me to a strange exhilaration.

I drank my water chocolate, which was hot if it was not rich, and strolled here and there, and up and down about the glade. While I was thus delaying, a gush of steady wind, as long as a heavy sigh, poured direct out of the quarter of the morning. It was cold, and set me sneezing. The trees near at hand tossed their black plumes in its passage; and I could see the thin distant spires of pine along the edge of the hill rock slightly to and fro against the golden east. Ten minutes after, the sunlight spread at a gallop along the hillside, scattering shadows and sparkles, and the day had come completely.

I hastened to prepare my pack, and tackle the steep ascent that lay before me; but I had something on my mind. It was only a fancy; yet a fancy will sometimes be importunate. I had been most hospitably received and punctually served in my green caravanserai. The room was airy, the water excellent, and the dawn had called me to a moment. I say nothing of the tapestries or the inimitable ceiling, nor yet of the view which I commanded from the windows; but I felt I was in some one's debt for all this liberal entertainment. And so it pleased me, in a half-laughing way, to leave pieces of money on the turf as I went along, until I had left enough for my night's lodging. I trust they did not fall to some rich and churlish drover.

WILLIAM WETMORE STORY

WILLIAM WETMORE STORY. Born in Salem, Massachusetts, February 19, 1819; died at Vallombrosa, near Florence, Italy, October 8, 1895. Author of "Nature and Art, a Poem," "Treatise on the Law of Contracts not under Seal," "Poems," "Life and Letters of Joseph Story," "The American Question," "Roba di Roma," "Proportions of the Human Figure," "A Roman Lawyer in Jerusalem," "Nero: An Historical Play," "Stephania: A Tragedy," "Castle St. Angelo and the Evil Eye," "Vallombrosa." As sculptor, poet, and writer upon legal themes, this son of Chief Justice Story illustrated that singular diversity of gifts which has characterized so many of his countrymen.

(The following poems are used by permission of Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, the publishers.)

IO VICTIS

I SING the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the Battle of

The hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who died overwhelmed

in the strife;

Not the jubilant song of the victors, for whom the resounding

acclaim

Of nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the chaplet

of fame,

But the hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the broken

in heart,

Who strove, and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part;

Whose youth bore no flower on its branches, whose hopes burned in ashes away,

From whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at, who stood at the dying of day

With the wreck of their life all around them, unpitied, un

heeded, alone,

With Death swooping down o'er their failure, and all but their faith overthrown.

While the voice of the world shouts its chorus

- its pæan for

those who have won;

While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, and high to the breeze and the sun

Glad banners are waving, hands clapping, and hurrying feet Thronging after the laurel-crowned victors, I stand on the field of defeat,

In the shadow, with those who are fallen, and wounded, and dying, and there

Chant a requiem low, place my hand on their pain-knotted brows, breathe a prayer,

Hold the hand that is helpless, and whisper, "They only the victory win,

Who have fought the good fight, and have vanquished the demon that tempts us within;

Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that the world holds on high;

Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resist, fight, if need be, to die."

Speak, History! who are Life's victors? Unroll thy long annals, and say,

Are they those whom the world called the victors—who won the success of a day?

The martyrs, or Nero? The Spartans, who fell at Thermopylæ's tryst,

Or the Persians and Xerxes? His judges, or Socrates? Pilate, or Christ?

CLEOPATRA

HERE, Charmian, take my bracelets,
They bar with a purple stain

My arms; turn over my pillows
They are not where I have lain :
Open the lattice wider,

A gauze on my bosom throw,
And let me inhale the odors

That over the garden blow.

I dreamed I was with my Antony,
And in his arms I lay;

Ah, me! the vision has vanished
The music has died away,

The flame and the perfume have perished-
As this spiced aromatic pastille
That wound the blue smoke of its odor
Is now but an ashy hill.

Scatter upon me rose-leaves,
They cool me after my sleep,
And with sandal odors fan me
Till into my veins they creep;
Reach down the lute, and play me
A melancholy tune,

To rhyme with the dream that has vanished,
And the slumbering afternoon.

Take rather his buckler and sword, And crash them and clash them together Till this sleeping world is stirred.

That flashes across the light.

Look! listen! as backward and forward
To his hoop of gold he clings,
How he trembles, with crest uplifted,
And shrieks as he madly swings!
O cockatoo, shriek for Antony!

Cry, "Come, my love, come home!"
Shriek, "Antony! Antony! Antony!"
Till he hears you even in Rome.

There leave me, and take from my chamber That stupid little gazelle,

With its bright black eyes so meaningless,

And its silly tinkling bell!

The thing without blood or brain, —

Or, by the body of Isis,

I'll snap his thin neck in twain!

Leave me to gaze at the landscape
Mistily stretching away,

Where the afternoon's opaline tremors
O'er the mountains quivering play;
Till the fiercer splendor of sunset
Pours from the west its fire,
And melted, as in a crucible,
Their earthy forms expire;

And the bald blear skull of its desert
With glowing mountains is crowned,
That burning like molten jewels
Circle its temples round.

I will lie and dream of the past time,
Æons of thought away,

And through the jungle of memory
Loosen my fancy to play;