e figure only--
Ah! why did I tremble so?
The eyes that gazed in the darkness
After the midnight train,
Are red with watching and weeping,
For it brings none back again.
Clouds hang in the west like banners,
Red banners of war unfurled,
And the prairie sod is crimson
With the best blood of the world.

White faces are pressed to the window,
Watching the sun go down,
Looking out to the coming darkness,
That covers the noisy town.
White are the hands, too, and quiet,
Over the pulseless breast;
No more will the vision of parting
Disturb the white sleeper's rest.
Over sleeper, and grave, and tombstone,
Like a pitying mantle spread,
The snow comes down in the night-time,
With a shy and noiseless tread.

Blue smoke rolls away on the north-wind,
Blue skies grow dusk in the din,
Blue waters look dark with the shadow
That gathers the world within.
Rigid and blue are the fingers
That clutch at the fading sky;
Blue lips in their agony mutter:
'O God! let this cup pass by.'
Blue eyes grow weary with watching;
Strong hands with waiting to do;
While brave hearts echo the watchword:
'Hurrah! for the Red, White, and Blue.'

_MACCARONI AND CANVAS._

IV.

THE FAIR AT GROTTO FERRATA.

No matter how well and hearty you may be, if you are in Rome, in summer,
when the _scirocco_ blows, you will feel as if convalescent from some
debilitating fever; in winter, however, this gentle-breathing south-east
wind will act more mildly; it will woo you to the country, induce you to
sit down in a shady place, smoke, and 'muse.' That incarnate essence of
enterprise, business, industry, economy, sharpness, shrewdness, and
keenness--that Prometheus whose liver was torn by the vulture of cent
per cent--eternally tossing, restless DOOLITTLE, was one day seen
asleep, during bank hours, on a seat in the Villa Madama. The _scirocco_
blew that day: Doolittle fell.

At breakfast, one morning in the latter part of the month of March,
Caper proposed to Roejean and another artist named Bagswell, to attend
the fair held that day at Grotto Ferrata.

'What will you find there?' asked Roejean.

'Find?--I remember, in the _Bohemian Girl_, a song that will answer
you,' replied Caper; 'the words were composed by the theatrical poet
Bunn':

'Rank, in its halls, may not find
The calm of a happy mind;
So repair
To the Fair,