many scenes, farewell.
Elaine! Elaine!

CUJUS ANIMAE PROPICIETUR DEUS.

A quiet, old cathedral folds apart
At Oxford, from the world of colleges
A world of tombs, and shades them in its heart;
Contrasting with the busy knowledges
This wisdom, that they all shall end in peace.--
"Vex you not, slaves of truth! there is release."

There every window is a monument
Emblazoned: every slab along the pave,
Each effigy with knees devoutly bent,--
Or prone, with folded gauntlets,--is a grave.
Unnoticed down the sands of Kronos run:
Slow move the sombre shadows with the sun.

Hard by a Norman shaft, along the floor
A portraiture on ancient bronze designed
In Academic hood and robes of yore,
Commemorates some by-gone lord of mind.
Mournful the face and dignified the head:
A man who pondered much upon the dead.

Repose unbroken now his dust surrounds,
He is with those whom mortals honor most.
Respect and tender sighs and holy sounds
Of choirs, and the presence of the Holy Ghost
And fellow spirits and shadowy mem'ries dear
Make for his rest a sacred atmosphere.

Sometime a gentle and profound Divine,
Father revered of spiritual sons.
He died. They laid him here. About his shrine,
Of what they wrote this remnant legend runs:
"Nascitur omnis homo peccato mortuus
Una post cineres virtus vivere sola facit."[A]

There as I breathed the lesson of the dead:
Sudden the rich bells chorussed overhead:
"O be not of the throng ephemeral
To whom to-day is fame, to-morrow fate,
Proud of some robe no statelier than a pall,
Mad for some wreath of cypress funeral--
A phantom generation fatuate.
Stand thou aside and stretch a hand to save,
Virtue alone revives beyond the grave."

[Footnote A: "Every man is born dead in sin. Virtue alone brings life
eternal."]

STANCHEZZA.

EARLY LINES

Lo Zephyr floats, on pinions delicate,
Past the dark belfry, where a deep-toned bell
Sways back and forth, Grief tolling out the knell
For thee, my friend, so young and yet so great.
Dead--thou art dead. The destiny of men
Is ever thus, like waves upon the main
To rise, grow great, fall with a crash and wane,
While still another grows to wane again,
Dead--thou art dead. Would that I too were gone
And that the grass which rustles on thy grave
Might also over mine forever wave
Made living by the death it grew upon.
I ask not Orpheus-like, that Pluto give
Thy soul t