Denis and the Faubourg Saint Martin. Not a sound was to be heard under the severely arched roof, along the gray and dirty walls; at times only the dragging step of slipshod clogs over the pavement, or a harsh and hollow cough broke the silence. The congregation was of the poorest class; a second-hand dealer in clothes with a colored handkerchief on her head, a maid carrying home some small family dinner tied up in a cloth, a coal-woman who hissed between her lips a silent prayer, a mother with a basket, and a child in her arms over whom she makes the sign of the cross as she enters, or a seamstress praying with bent head, and finger-tips roughened by the needle raised to her mouth. Women in mourning, with old black dresses, bonnets, and veils turned rusty, pass through the aisles. Close by the iron railings of the side chapels other old women in linen caps may be seen, with fixed gaze, dilated pupils, and eyes upraised, mumbling prayers. At times also in a corner some bent old man in a shabby blue coat whitened at the seams would kneel humbly on the ground. Philomène, however, did not notice the melancholy aspect of Saint Laurent. She did not see that the church was miserable, for she was happy there, and it seemed to her that her pleasure was due to the place itself and its belongings. She was conscious of a vague sensation of comfort and infinite peace, a dreamy idleness and languid satisfaction. The spell she was under while seated in the nave gave her the sensation of a balmy and soothing climate, and the penetrating, subtle atmosphere of the church seemed to her that of an ideal fatherland.

EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE.

GOSSE, EDMUND WILLIAM, an English poet and critic; born at London, September 21, 1849. In 1867 he was appointed an Assistant Librarian in the British Museum, and in 1875 translator to the Board of Trade. In 1872 and 1874 he visited Denmark, Sweden, and Norway, and in 1877 Holland, for the purpose of studying the literature of those countries. He is the author of "Madrigals, Songs, and Sonnets" (1870); "On Viol and Flute" (1873); “King Erik," a tragedy (1876); "The Unknown Lover" (1878); "New Poems" (1879); "Studies in Northern Literature" (1879); "Life of Gray" (1882); "From Shakespeare to Pope" (1885); "Seventeenth Century Studies," critical essays on literature (1883); “Firdausi in Exile, and Other Poems" (1885); "Raleigh," in the "English Men of Letters" series (1886); "A Life of Congreve (1888); "History of Eighteenth Century Literature" (1889); Gossip in a Library" (1891); "The Secret of Narcisse," romance (1892); "Questions at Issue," essays (1893); "The Jacobean Poets" (1894); "In Russet and Silver," poems (1894); "Critical Kit-Kats" (1896); "History of Modern English Literature" (1897). He also contributed numerous essays to "Ward's English Poets " (1880-81).

FEBRUARY IN ROME.

WHEN Roman fields are red with cyclamen,
And in the palace gardens you may find,
Under great leaves and sheltering briony-bind,
Clusters of cream-white violets, oh then

The ruined city of immortal men

Must smile, a little to her fate resigned,

And through her corridors the slow warm wind

Gush harmonies beyond a mortal ken.

Such soft favonian airs upon a flute,

Such shadowy censers burning live perfume,
Shall lead the mystic city to her tomb;

Nor flowerless springs, nor autumns without fruit,
Nor summer mornings when the winds are mute,
Trouble her soul till Rome be no more Rome.

DESIDERIUM.

SIT there forever, dear, and lean
In marble as in fleeting flesh,
Above the tall gray reeds that screen
The river when the breeze is fresh;
Forever let the morning light

Stream down that forehead broad and white,
And round that cheek for my delight.

Already that flushed moment grows

So dark, so distant; through the ranks
Of scented reed the river flows,

Still murmuring to its willowy banks;
But we can never hope to share
Again that rapture fond and rare,
Unless you turn immortal there.

There is no other way to hold

These webs of mingled joy and pain; Like gossamer their threads enfold

The journeying heart without a strain, Then break, and pass in cloud or dew, And while the ecstatic soul goes through, Are withered in the parching blue.

Hold, Time, a little while thy glass,

And Youth, fold up those peacock wings!
More rapture fills the years that pass
Than any hope the future brings;
Some for to-morrow rashly pray,
And some desire to hold to-day,
But I am sick for yesterday.

Since yesterday the hills were blue
That shall be gray for evermore,
And the fair sunset was shot through
With color never seen before!
Tyrannic Love smiled yesterday,
And lost the terrors of his sway,
But is a god again to-day.

Ah, who will give us back the past?

Ah woe, that youth should love to be Like this swift Thames that speeds so fast, And is so fain to find the sea,

That leaves this maze of shadow and sleep,

These creeks down which blown blossoms creep,
For breakers of the homeless deep.

Then sit forever, dear, in stone,

As when you turned with half a smile, And I will haunt this islet lone,

And with a dream my tears beguile;

And in my reverie forget

That stars and suns were made to set;
That love grows cold, or eyes are wet.

LYING IN THE GRASS.

BETWEEN two golden tufts of summer grass,
I see the world through hot air as through glass,
And by my face sweet lights and colors pass.

Before me dark against the fading sky,
I watch three mowers mowing, as I lie:
With brawny arms they sweep in harmony.

Brown English faces by the sun burnt red,
Rich glowing color on bare throat and head,-
My heart would leap to watch them, were I dead!

The music of the scythes that glide and leap,
The young men whistling as their great arms sweep,
And all the perfume and sweet sense of sleep,

The weary butterflies that droop their wings,
The dreamy nightingale that hardly sings,
And all the lassitude of happy things,

Is mingling with the warm and pulsing blood,
That gushes through my veins a languid flood,
And feeds my spirit as the sap a bud.

Behind the mowers, on the amber air,
A dark-green beech wood rises, still and fair,
A white path winding up it like a stair.

And see that girl, with pitcher on her head,
And clean white apron on her gown of red,
Her evensong of love is but half said:

She waits the youngest mower. Now he goes;
Her cheeks are redder than a wild blush-rose;
They climb up where the deepest shadows close.

But though they pass, and vanish, I am there.
I watch his rough hands meet beneath her hair;
Their broken speech sounds sweet to me like prayer.

Ah! now the rosy children come to play,

And romp and struggle with the new-mown hay;
Their clear, high voices sound from far away.

They know so little why the world is sad;
They dig themselves warm graves, and yet are glad;
Their muffled screams and laughter make me mad!

I long to go and play among them there;
Unseen, like wind, to take them by the hair,
And gently make their rosy cheeks more fair.

The happy children! full of frank surprise,
And sudden whims and innocent ecstasies;
What Godhead sparkles from their liquid eyes!

No wonder round those urns of mingled clays
That Tuscan potters fashioned in old days,
And colored like the torrid earth ablaze,

We find the little gods and Loves portrayed,
Through ancient forests wandering undismayed,
And fluting hymns of pleasure unafraid.

They knew, as I do now, what keen delight
A strong man feels to watch the tender flight
Of little children playing in his sight.

I do not hunger for a well-stored mind;
I only wish to live my life, and find
My heart in unison with all mankind.

My life is like the single dewy star
That trembles on the horizon's primrose bar,
A microcosm where all things living are.