ting to all the
remedial expedients which professional skill or his own experience could
suggest, but never entirely delivering himself from its inexorable
mastery.

In the true estimate of genius, its achievements only approximate the
highest standard of excellence as they are representative, or
illustrative, of important truth. They are only great as they are good.
If Mr. Foster's art embodied no higher idea than the vulgar notion of
the negro as a man-monkey,--a thing of tricks and antics,--a funny
specimen of superior gorilla,--then it might have proved a tolerable
catch-penny affair, and commanded an admiration among boys of various
growths until its novelty wore off. But the art in his hands teemed with
a nobler significance. It dealt, in its simplicity, with universal
sympathies, and taught us all to feel with the slaves the lowly joys and
sorrows it celebrated.

May the time be far in the future ere lips fail to move to its music, or
hearts to respond to its influence, and may we who owe him so much
preserve gratefully the memory of the master, STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER.

THE FEAST OF HARVEST.

The fair Earth smiled and turned herself and woke,
And to the Sun with nuptial greeting said:--
"I had a dream, wherein it seemed men broke
A sovran league, and long years fought and bled,
Till down my sweet sides ran my children's gore,
And all my beautiful garments were made red,
And all my fertile fields were thicket-grown,
Nor could thy dear light reach me through the air;
At last a voice cried, 'Let them strive no more!'
Then music breathed, and lo! from my despair
I wake to joy,--yet would not joy alone!

"For, hark! I hear a murmur on the meads,--
Where as of old my children seek my face,--
The low of kine, the peaceful tramp of steeds,
Blithe shouts of men in many a pastoral place,
The noise of tilth through all my goodliest land;
And happy laughter of a dusky race
Whose brethren lift them from their ancient toil,
Saying: 'The year of jubilee has come;
Gather the gifts of Earth with equal hand;
Henceforth ye too may share the birthright soil,
The corn, the wine, and all the harvest-home.'

"O, my dear lord, my radiant bridegroom, look!
Behold their joy who sorrowed in my dreams,--
The sword a share, the spear a pruning-hook;
Lo, I awake, and turn me towar