aise. Just within the gateway, a little to the right of the
carriage-track, were two tablets, side by side--one was older than the
other. The lesser one was quite new; it was inscribed simply--"Marie,
1846." There were no flowers; even the grass was hardly yet rooted
about the smaller grave--but I picked a rose-bud from the grave of the
old man. I have it now.

Before I left Paris, I went down into the old corridor again, in the
Rue de Seine. I looked up in the court at the little window at the
top.

A new occupant had gone in; the broken glass was re-set, and a dirty
printed curtain was hanging over the lower half. I had rather have
seen it empty.

I half wished I had never seen _Le Petit Soulier_.

EARLY ENGLISH POETS.

BY ELIZABETH J. EAMES.

MILTON.
Learned and illustrious of all Poets thou,
Whose Titan intellect sublimely bore
The weight of years unbent; thou, on whose brow
Flourish'd the blossom of all human lore--
How dost thou take us back, as 't were by vision,
To the grave learning of the Sanhedrim;
And we behold in visitings Elysian,
Where waved the white wings of the Cherubim;
But, through thy "Paradise Lost," and "Regained,"
We might, enchanted, wander evermore.
Of all the genius-gifted thou hast reigned
King of our hearts; and, till upon the shore
Of the Eternal dies the voice of Time,
Thy name shall mightiest stand--pure, brilliant, and sublime.

DRYDEN.
Not dearer to the scholar's eye than mine,
(Albeit unlearned in ancient classic lore,)
The daintie Poesie of days of yore--
The choice old English rhyme--and over thine,
Oh! "glorious John," delightedly I pore--
Keen, vigorous, chaste, and full of harmony,
Deep in the soil of our humanity
It taketh root, until the goodly tree
Of Poesy puts forth green branch and bough,
With bud and blossom sweet. Through the rich gloom
Of one embowered haunt I see thee now,
Where 'neath thy hand the "Flower and Leaflet" bloom.
That hand to dust hath mouldered long ago,
Yet its creations with immortal life still glow.

ADDISON.
Thou, too, art worthy of all praise, whose pen,
"In thoughts that breathe, and words that burn," did shed,
A noontide glory over Milton's head--
He, "Prince of Poets"--thou, the prince of men--
Blessings on thee, and on the honored dead.
How dost thou charm for us the touching story
Of the lost children in the gloomy wood;
Haunting