They press to the door, But too late! All is o'er. Naught remains but a woman's form prone on the floor; But they still see a trace Of that glow in her face That they saw in the light of the altar's high blaze On the image that stands With the babe in its hands Enshrined in the churches of all Christian lands. A Te Deum sung, A censer high swung, With praise, benediction, and incense wide-flung, Proclaim that the CURSE IS REMOVED--and no worse Is the Dom for the trial--in fact, the REVERSE; For instead of their losing A soul in abusing The Evil One's faith, they gained one of his choosing. Thus the legend is told: You will find in the old Vaulted aisles of the Dom, stiff in marble or cold In iron and brass, In gown and cuirass, The knights, priests, and bishops who came to that Mass; And high o'er the rest, With her babe at her breast, The image of Mary Madonna the blest. But you look round in vain, On each high pictured pane, For the woman most worthy to walk in her train. Yet, standing to-day O'er the dust and the clay, 'Midst the ghosts of a life that has long passed away, With the slow-sinking sun Looking softly upon That stained-glass procession, I scarce miss the one That it does not reveal, For I know and I feel That these are but shadows--the woman was real! THE TALE OF A PONY Name of my heroine, simply "Rose;" Surname, tolerable only in prose; Habitat, Paris,--that is where She resided for change of air; Aetat twenty; complexion fair; Rich, good looking, and debonnaire; Smarter than Jersey lightning. There! That's her photograph, done with care. In Paris, whatever they do besides, EVERY LADY IN FULL DRESS RIDES! Moire antiques you never meet Sweeping the filth of a dirty street But every woman's claim to ton Depends upon The team she drives, whether phaeton, Landau, or britzka. Hence it's plain That Rose, who was of her toilet vain, Should have a team that ought to be Equal to any in all Paris! "Bring forth the horse!" The commissaire Bowed, and brought Miss Rose a pair Leading an equipage rich and rare. Why doth that lovely lady stare? Why? The tail of the off gray mare Is bobbed, by all that's good and fair! Like the shaving-brushes that soldiers wear, Scarcely showing as much back hair As Tam O'Shanter's "Meg,"--and there, Lord knows, she'd little enough to spare.