For, born of winter snows, These fragile flowers Are gifts to our frail Queen From spring's first hours. For on this blessed day She knelt at prayer; When, lo, before her shone An Angel Fair. "Hail, Mary!" thus he cried With reverent fear; She, with sweet, wondering eyes Marvelled to hear. Be still, ye clouds of heaven! Be silent, earth! And hear an angel tell Of Jesus' birth. While she, whom Gabriel hails As full of grace, Listens with humble faith In her sweet face. Be still, Pride, War and Pomp, Vain Hopes, vain Fear, For now an angel speaks And Mary hears. "Hail, Mary!" lo, it rings Through ages on; "Hail, Mary!" it shall sound Till time is done. "Hail, Mary!" infant lips Lisp it to-day; "Hail, Mary!" with faint smile, The dying say. "Hail, Mary!" many a heart Broken with grief In that angelic prayer Has found relief. And many a half lost soul When turned at bay, With those triumphant words Has won the day. "Hail, Mary, Queen of Heaven!" Let us repeat, And place our snow-drop wreath Here at her feet. ADELAIDE PROCTOR. Much-a-Wanted. The sun of an Italian September was shining in broad, yellow splendor on Ancona--shining on the city, on its tawny background of hills, and on the shimmering spread of the Adriatic at its feet. But for all the sunshine, the city was not cheerful. The narrow streets were deserted by ordinary wayfarers, shops were shut, sometimes a wan face peeped furtively from a half-opened casement. The churches were turned from their normal purposes to those of hospitals. Sant' Agostino, near the Piazza del Teatro, was assigned to one set of patients; even the transepts and aisles of the Duomo, on the top of the Monte Ciriaco, were converted into wards and lined with rows of beds. It was not that a pestilence brooded over the place, but something worse, much worse. Unfortunate Ancona, the scene of so many pages of strife written by Greeks, Lombards, and Saracens, by the troops of Barbarossa and of others, was undergoing its latest bombardment on this September day of 1860. Since the opening of the century it had changed its masters four times: now it was about to change them anew.