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Between the two, a mouldy nook

Where loungers hunt for things of worthEngraving, curio, or book—

Here drifted from all over Earth.

Be the day's traffic more or less,

Old Brian seeks his Leyden chair

Placed in the ante-room's recess,

Our connoisseur's securest lair:

Here, turning full the burner's rays,

Holds long his treasure-trove in sight,

Upon a painting sets his gaze

Like some devoted eremite.

The book-worms rummage as they will,
Loud roars the wonted Broadway din,
Life runs its hackneyed round,—but still
One tireless boon can Brian win,—
Can picture in this modern time

A life no more the world shall know,
And dream of Beauty at her prime
In Parma, with Correggio.

Withered the dealer's face, and old,

But wearing yet the first surprise Of him whose eyes the light behold Of Italy and Paradise:

Forever blest, forever young,

The rapt Madonna poises there,
Her praise by hovering cherubs sung,
Her robes by ether buoyed, not air.

See from the graybeard's meerschaum float
A cloud of incense! Day or night,
He needs must steal apart to note
Her grace, her consecrating light.

With less ecstatic worship lay,

Before his marble goddess prone,

The crippled poet, that last day

When in the Louvre he made his moan.

Warm grows the radiant masterpiece,—

The sweetness of Correggio!

The visionary hues increase,-
Angelic lustres come and go;
And still, as still in Parma too,-

In Rome, Bologna, Florence, all,—
Goes on the outer world's ado,
Life's transitory, harsh recall.

A real Correggio? And here!

1

Yes, to the one impassioned heart, Transfiguring all, the strokes appear That mark the perfect master's art. You question of the proof? You owe More faith to fact than fancy? Hush!

Look with expectant eyes, and know,

With him, the hand that held the brush!

The same wild thought that warmed from stone

The Venus of the monkish Gest,

The image of Pygmalion,

Here finds Correggio confessed.

And Art requires its votary:

The Queen of Heaven herself may pine When these quaint rooms no longer see The one that knew her all divine.

Ah, me! ah me, for centuries veiled!
(The desolate Virgin then may say,)
Once more my rainbow tints are paled

With that unquestioning soul away—

Whose faith compelled the sun, the stars,
To yield their halos for my sake,
And saw through Time's obscuring bars
The Parmese master's glory break!

THE WORLD WELL LOST.

That year? Yes, doubtless I remember still,-
Though why take count of every wind that blows!
'Twas plain, men said, that Fortune used me ill
That year, the self-same year I met with Rose.

Crops failed; wealth took a flight; house, treasure, land,
Slipped from my hold-thus Plenty comes and goes.
One friend I had, but he too loosed his hand
(Or was it I?) the year I met with Rose.

There was a war, methinks; some rumor, too,
Of famine, pestilence, fire, deluge, snows;
Things went awry. My rivals, straight in view,
Throve, spite of all; but I,-I met with Rose !

That year my white-faced Alma pined and died:
Some trouble vexed her quiet heart,-who knows?
Not I, who scarcely missed her from my side,
Or aught else gone, the year I met with Rose.

Was there no more? Yes, that year life began:
All life before a dream, false joys, light woes,—

All after-life compressed within the span

Of that one year, the year I met with Rose !

Ributions Stevenson

NORTH-WEST PASSAGE.

I. GOOD-NIGHT.

When the bright lamp is carried in,
The sunless hours again begin;
O'er all without, in field and lane,
The haunted night returns again.

Now we behold the embers flee
About the fire-lit hearth; and see
Our faces painted as we pass,

Like pictures, on the window-glass.

Must we to bed indeed? Well then,
Let us arise and go like men,
And face with an undaunted tread
The long black passage up to bed.

Farewell, O brother, sister, sire!
O pleasant party round the fire!
The songs you sing, the tales you tell,
Till far to-morrow, fare ye well!

2. SHADOW MARCH.

All around the house is the jet-black night;
It stares through the window-pane;

It crawls in the corners, hiding from the light,
And it moves with the moving flame.

Now my heart goes a-beating like a drum,
With the breath of the Bogie in my hair;
And all around the candle the crooked shadows come,
And go marching along up the stair.

The shadow of the balusters, the shadow of the lamp. The shadow of the child that goes to bed—

All the wicked shadows coming, tramp, tramp, tramp, With the black night overhead.

3. IN PORT.

Last, to the chamber where I lie
My fearful footsteps patter nigh,
And come from out the cold and gloom
Into my warm and cheerful room.

There, safe arrived, we turn about
To keep the coming shadows out,
And close the happy door at last
On all the perils that we past.

Then, when mamma goes by to bed,
She shall come in with tip-toe tread,
And see me lying warm and fast
And in the land of Nod at last.

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