Was cruel-for himself was his own love, Himself his own despair. Then in his ear Sudden there spake, or seemed to speak, a voice :"Life without love, or with a love unreaped, "Makes every hour a death; but death comes once"Better to die, for death will make an end." “O Love, dread Love, I know thee-but too late: "Come, feast thine eyes; thou art indeed avenged!" And lovelorn Echo, startling at the cry, Paused in her bower a moment, then took up The shrill-toned sorrow, and from hill to hill Tossed it in mocking mood, until the voice Failed in the far-off clouds-Avenged! Avenged! So when the sun unyoked his flaming steeds, And through the glimmering silence, calm and slow, The dark world drifted to the bourne of sleep, Came the death-angel in the cool of eve, Who seals impermeable to life and light The charm-constrained orbs, and solemnly O'er the lost lover bending in the gloom, Touched the pale brow with ceremonial wand. Whence a sad wonderment, the pain of dreams, Hung round his tranced spirit like a mist; And all about him snatches of old songs, Heard in old hours among the Oréades, Mixed with a meaning never felt before, Floated-dark legends of mysterious love Unhappy, and of hope for ever fallen, Fallen for ever, like his own-and still Haunted him more than all a simple strain Sung by Liriope, the naïad-nymph, His mother, how a maiden golden-haired, Trusting to treachery and led by love, Followed a stranger from her father's halls :- 6 Nor any more availeth that the showers Moveless like marble, with unlighted eyes And countenance snow-cold, which even in death Then, after twilight, the stars one by one Showed whiter in the broken misty light. There he lay all night long, until the birds P. S. WORSLEY. THE SNOWDROPS. WITHOUT the dry trees groan and shiver, By the maiden's side on the couch were lying, Slowly she spake in a voice of sorrow- "Yet a few hours, then droop and wither; "Silently fade and fall with me ; "Far from the sun we will rest together, "Shut from the sound of the moaning sea." Ah, poor maid! nor father nor mother Why wilt thou take the heart I cherished? P. S. WORSLEY. A FEUILLETON. LAHURE (MATHIEU) had taken a lodging at Enghien. It was summer. Lahure loved the country, its roses, balmy air, quaint festivities, and Sunday visitors. Lahure was a native of Bordeaux, nursed on claret, young and good-looking, impetuous and combustible; picturesque himself, and the lover of the picturesque in others; honest at heart, gay in manner, an observer of life under every aspect, a writer of no mean merit, and a caricaturist of the first calibre, even in Paris. And he had taken lodgings at Enghien, whence he occasionally journeyed to Paris, so as not to lose the true smack of Parisian humour. An artist, whatever his branch, weaves his art into his life, and devotes his life to his art; who separates the two is not an artist, but a mechanic. The result is not a life-at times scarce a livelihood. So Lahure used to repair to the capital, not as a traveller, but a caricaturist. He never went by railway. He either walked or clung to a cart, or, when the day was wet, took his place in the omnibus. The day was wet, and Lahure took his place in the omnibus. He was late, and chance led him to the remote and dark end of the vehicle. A young lady sat on his right, occupying the corner. Lahure commenced an examination of her face; he was always on the search for a new countenance to adorn his easel. The profile of Lahure's neighbour was worthy the pencil of a Guido. Lahure, a humble follower of that great master, paid homage to his memory by studying the model accordingly. But artists are not always content with still life; they require animation as well as purity of outline. It behoved, therefore, Lahure, by dint of his conversational powers, to produce that play of feature which perplexes and delights others besides artists. So he began-about the weather. "It rains," said Mathieu, addressing his neighbour. "What extravagance of resource !" soliloquised, spitefully and aloud, a notary's clerk. Lucky fellow," murmured an old bachelor playfully, while one or two elderly married couples smiled conjugal smiles on each other's ample proportions, and approved the young gentleman's advances. "It rains, Mademoiselle," repeated Lahure. "It does indeed," answered the young lady. "I fear it will rain all day," continued the artist. "There is much cause for apprehension," responded the Guido face. "Bad for the crops," commented an agricultural couple. "Bad for my digestion," smiled Lahure. "How do you account for that interesting statistic?" sneered the notary's clerk. Because, not being accustomed to trot about the streets with a waggonload of papers on my back, I enjoy a walk from Paris to Enghien, and rely upon it for my appetite." A chuckle ran round the carriage, in which the young lady partook with an angelic smile, the clerk having offended her previously by odd smirks in the way of advances. The culprit relapsed into silence, and, carriages not being incentive to conversation, each relapsed into his own thoughts, except the artist. Bent on an interchange of ideas with some one, his right-hand neighbour seemed to present the majority of qualifications. "Perhaps Mademoiselle will be returning this evening?" hazarded. Lahure. "No, Monsieur, I shall not.” "Does Mademoiselle then not live at Enghien?” "Only occasionally." "Perhaps Mademoiselle resides at Paris?" continued the artist, with a copious readiness. "Occasionally only." Ah, I perceive ;" and Mathieu smiled as one pleased with his own adroitness: Mademoiselle divides 66 her time equally between the two fortunate spots." "As Mademoiselle, she would not admit a compliment." While speaking she arranged her veil in graceful folds on the further side. "Pardon, Madame, the insipidity of my conversation." "Make no excuses, Monsieur; its insipidity was the only part of it that pleased me." "Can I make up for it by offering you this morning's Charivari?" "Thank you; I have seen it." "Perhaps Monsieur votre mari is connected with the press that you receive it so early?" "I am a widow." "I beg pardon again, a thousand times." A face such as that could not seem mortally offended; on the contrary, it spoke in gentle accents. I am a great amateur of the Charivari, and a friendly publisher supplies me with early copies." "Ma foi !" soliloquised the artist. "A widow, and one who can afford to receive early copies at Enghien. Madame," he continued, "I am enchanted to hear of your bienveillance towards the Charivari.” "Wherefore this great joy?" asked the widow, in a tone of surprise. "You said, I think, Madame, that you protected that journal." "Rather it protects me, by causing me to spend many a pleasant hour. I look on it as one of my best and oldest friends." "Then, Madame, I have a little right to your good-will. I am a constant contributor to its pages, and, I trust, to your pleasures. "Are you really? Then I am indeed glad. I have so long wished to know personally-or at least to see some of the very clever writers who maintain that journal with such unflagging spirit.' Madame, you will make me appear like one of our favourite idiots." "Impossible." A bow. hint." "Hint for hint." "What do you mean?" "Make use only of your wit to discover my secret-no underhand means. Do not follow me when I leave the omnibus, or ask questions about me." "Madame, I flatter myself I am a man of honour. I give you my promise. In return, you must pledge yourself not to ask any questions about me, or to follow me when I leave the omnibus." "Monsieur, I am a woman of honour. I give you my promise." "Then, now for our battle." "What have you contributed today to the journal ?" "You inquire into the past; I only peer into the future. Shall you return to Enghien by omnibus tonight?" "I do not think I shall ever travel in an omnibus again. It was by |