And should in soul up to our country move:
True; and yet true that I must Stella love.

ETERNAL LOVE.

LEAVE me, O Love, which reachest but to dust,
And thou, my Mind, aspire to higher things;
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust:

Whatever fades but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams, and humble all their might

To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be, Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light That doth both shine and give us light to see! Oh, take fast hold; let that light be thy guide

In this small course which birth draws out to death; And think how evil becometh him to slide,

Who seeketh heaven and comes of heavenly breath.

Then farewell, world! thy uttermost I see:

Eternal Love, maintain thy Life in me !

TO SLEEP.

COME Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,

The indifferent judge between the high and low!
With shield of proof shield me from out the prease
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw;
Oh, make in me those civil wars to cease,

I will good tribute pay if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light;
A rosy garland and a weary head.

And if these things, as being thine by right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,
Lovelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.

INVOCATION TO NIGHT.

O NIGHT! the ease of care, the pledge of pleasure,
Desire's best mean, harvest of hearts affected,
The seat of peace, the one which is erected

Of human life to be the quiet measure;

Be victor still of Phoebus's golden treasure,

Who hath our sight with too much sight infected; Whose light is cause we have our time neglected, Turning all Nature's course to self-displeasure. These stately stars, in their now shining faces, With sinless Sleep, and Silence Wisdom's motherWitness this wrong, which by thy help is easèd. Thou art, therefore, of these our desert places The sure refuge; by thee, and by no other, My soul is blest, sense joyed, and fortune rased.

LOVE'S SILENCE.

BECAUSE I breathe not love to everie one,
Nor do not use set colors for to weare,
Nor nourish special locks of vowèd haire,
Nor give each speech a full point of a groane, —
The courtlie nymphs, acquainted with the moane
Of them who on their lips Love's standard beare,
"What! he?" say they of me.
"Now I dare sweare

He cannot love: No, no! let him alone."

And think so still - if Stella know my minde.

Profess, indeed, I do not Cupid's art;

But you, faire maids, at length this true shall finde, That his right badge is but worne in the hearte.

Dumb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers prove
They love indeed who quake to say they love.

MY TRUE-LOVE HATH MY HEART.

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one to the other given:
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,

There never was a better bargain driven:
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.
His heart in me keeps him and me in one;

My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:
He loves my heart, for once it was his own;
I cherish his because in me it bides:

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

SONNET.

WITH how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies,
How silently, and with how wan a face!
What may it be, that even in heavenly place
That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long with love acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;
I read it in thy looks, thy languished grace
To me that feel the like thy state descries.
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

SONNET.

LEAVE me, O love which reachest but to dust;
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things;
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust;

Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams, and tumble all thy might

To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be, Which breaks the clouds and opens forth the light,

That doth but shine and give us sight to see. Oh, take fast hold let that light be thy guide

In this small course which birth draws out to death;

And think how evil becometh him to slide,

Who seeketh heaven and comes of heavenly breath. Then farewell, world! thy uttermost I see:

Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me!

HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ.

SIENKIEWICZ, HENRYK, an eminent Polish novelist; born at Wola Okrejska, in the Lukowschen, of Lithuanian parents, in 1845. He was educated at the University of Warsaw, after which he led a wandering life. In 1876 he came to America, and spent some years in California. Returning to his own country, he settled at Warsaw and gave himself up to the pursuit of literature. He then began the issue of the series of novels and historical romances which have won for him one of the first places in modern Polish literature. In 1872 he published at Warsaw a collection of humorous little stories which became very popular; and which was followed in 1874 by "Szkice Weglem" (Charcoal Sketches). His principal later works are, "Ogniem i Mieczem" (By Fire and Sword) (1885), an historical novel which in less than ten years had passed through more than thirty editions; "Potop" (The Deluge) (1886); “Pan Michael;" "Village Stories ;" and "Quo Vadis " (1896). A complete collection of his works up to 1890 was issued in twelve volumes under the general title "Pisma."

THE DEATH OF PAN LONGIN.1

(From "With Fire and Sword." Translated by Jeremiah Curtin.)

PAN LONGIN hastened to the castle; the others returned to the ramparts. Skshetuski and Volodyovski were silent, but Zagloba said:

"Something holds me by the throat. I did not think to be sorrowful, but that is the worthiest man in the world. If any one contradicts me, I'll give it to him in the face. O my God, iny God! I thought the castellan of Belsk would restrain the prince, but he beat the drums still more. The hangman brought that heretic! History,' he says, 'will write of you.' write of him, but not on the skin of Pan Longin. And why does n't he go out himself? He has six toes on his feet, like

Let it

1 Copyright, 1890, by Jeremiah Curtin. Reprinted by permission of Little, Brown & Co.

every Calvinist, and he can walk better. I tell you, gentlemen, that it is getting worse and worse on earth, and Jabkovski is a true prophet when he says that the end of the world is near. Let us sit down awhile at the ramparts, and then go to the castle, so as to console ourselves with the company of our friend till evening at least."

But Pan Longin, after confession and communion, spent the whole time in prayer. He made his first appearance at the storm in the evening, which was one of the most awful, for the Cossacks had struck just when the troops were transporting their cannon and wagons to the newly raised ramparts. For a time it seemed that the slender forces of the Poles would fall before the onrush of two hundred thousand foes. The Polish battalions had become so intermingled with the enemy that they could not distinguish their own, and three times they closed in this fashion. Hmelnitski exerted all his power; for the Khan and his own colonels had told him that this must be the last storm, and that henceforth they would only harass the besieged with hunger. But after three hours, all attacks were repulsed with such terrible losses that, according to later reports, forty thousand of the enemy had fallen. One thing is certain, after the battle a whole bundle of flags was thrown at the feet of the prince; and this was really the last great assault, after which followed more difficult times of digging under the ramparts, capturing wagons, continual firing, suffering, and famine.

Immediately after the storm the soldiers, ready to drop from weariness, were led by the tireless Yeremi in a sally, which ended in a new defeat for the enemy. Quiet then soothed the tabor and the camp.

The night was warm but cloudy. Four black forms pushed themselves quietly and carefully to the eastern edge of the ramparts. They were Pan Longin, Zagloba, Skshetuski, and Volodyovski.

"Guard your pistols well, to keep the powder dry," whispered Pan Yan. "Two battalions will be ready all night. If you fire, we will spring to the rescue.

"Nothing to be seen, even if you strain your eyes out!" whispered Zagloba.

"That is better," answered Pan Longin.

"Be quiet!" interrupted Volodyovski: "I hear something." "That is only the groan of a dying man, nothing!"