[6] “Don Giovanni” was composed in 1787. The Abbé Da Ponte, who wrote the book, and who enjoyed at Vienna the same distinction with Metastasio as a writer of musical poetry, died in New York, in December 1838, at the age of 90 years, in a state of extreme destitution. For thirty years he had sought a living in that city by teaching the Italian language. * * * * * AUTUMN RAIN. BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY. How I love the Autumn rain! Pattering at my window-pane, With a liquid, lulling tone, As I sit all day alone— Thinking o’er and o’er again Only how I love the rain! How I love the Autumn rain! When it brings a thoughtful train— When in meditative mood I enjoy my solitude, While the full and active brain Works as busy as the rain. How I love the Autumn rain When, without a care or pain, I can dream, and dream all day, Or with loitering Fancy stray— Weaving some capacious strain Musical as Autumn rain. How I love the Autumn rain! When gray twilight comes again: When the flickering hearth-flumes dance, While the shadows dart askance— Seeming goblins to the brain, In the dreamy Autumn rain. How I love the Autumn rain! Pattering at my window-pane, When upon my bed reposing— Half in waking, half in dozing, Then a dulcet music-strain Seems the pleasant Autumn rain. How I love the Autumn rain! Though it come, and come again, Never does it weary me With its dull monotony; Never on my ear in vain Falls the pattering Autumn rain. * * * * * TO MARY ON EARTH. BY A. J. REQUIER. I’m thinking of thee, Mary, And twilight shadows fall With mournful stillness o’er the scene And deepen on the wall; But with the dim, departing light, Breaks faintly, from afar, Upon the bosom of the night, A solitary star! I’m thinking of thee, Mary, For like that twilight scene, The dusk and dew were on my heart, To darken what was green; The dusk and dew were falling fast Upon its faded dreams, When, through the gloom, thy young love cast The fervor of its beams. I’m thinking of thee, Mary, For in this lonely hour A thought of other times will come, Of parted friends will lower; And early images arise, With freshness flushed in pain, Of tender forms and tearful eyes I may not see again. I’m thinking of thee, Mary, For when such moments dwell Upon my spirits with the weight Of a departing knell, A thought of thee breaks through the night Of memories that mar, With the lone glory of that bright, That solitary star!