ground;
But Montez stands still; his ribbons don't flutter!
Saints, what a leap!
His rosette is on the bull's black horn;
Montez is pale; but his great eye shines
When Dolores cries--"_Kisses for Montez!_"
Fie! Manuel's duchess!

A minute longer the fight is done,
The mule-bells tinkle, the bull rides off;
Montez twirls a new diamond ring,
And Dolores goes home for chocolate.

ON THE CAMPAGNA.

Stop on the Appian Way,
In the Roman Campagna;
Stop at my tomb,
The tomb of Cecilia Metella.
To-day as you see it,
Alaric saw it, ages ago,
When he, with his pale-visaged Goths,
Sat at the gates of Rome,
Reading his Runic shield.
Odin, thy curse remains!

Beneath these battlements
My bones were stirred with Roman pride,
Though centuries before my Romans died
Now my bones are dust; the Goths are dust.
The river-bed is dry where sleeps the king,
My tomb remains!

When Rome commanded the earth
Great were the Metelli:
I was Metella's wife;
I loved him--and I died.
Then with slow patience built he this memorial:
Each century marks his love.

Pass by on the Appian Way
The tomb of Cecilia Metella;
Wild shepherds alone seek its shelter,
Wild buffaloes tramp at its base.
Deep is its desolation,
Deep as the shadow of Rome!

THE QUEEN DEPOSED.

I was the queen of Karl, a northern king:
Amazon Olga, and I rode his Ban,
A stallion in the royal ring
Who would not bear a man.

And in Ban's saddle did I feel the pains
For my first-born, the king's sole hope, his heir;
My Karl himself would loose the reins,
Would take me up the stair.

Low was the murmur of the royal troops
Below, I saw the tapers' twinkling light;
I heard a cry--"My queen, she droops!"
Then fell eternal night.

No more was Olga queen for any king;
The pathway round a throne she could not tread,
Nor triumph in the royal ring--
The boy she bore was dead!

The cloister hers; she chose the cloak and hood,
And beads of olive-wood, a pouch for alms;
So begged she, Christ, for thy dear rood,
_Laus Deo_ sang thy psalms!

Why am I here? This country is my king's;
The lovely river, wooded hills above;
Old St. Sebastian's church-bell rings--
There flies the silver dove

That flitted by the day we came to praise
Our gracious Mar