He hides the grave-tools in an aged porch, To westward of the solitary church: And he hath clasp’d around the melting waist, The beautiful, dead girl: his cheek is pressed To hers—life warming the cold chill of death! And over his pale palsy breathing breath His eye is sunk upon her—“Thou must leave The worm to waste for love of thee, and grieve Without thee, as I may not.—Thou must go, My sweet betrothed, with me—but not below, Where there is darkness, dream, and solitude, But where is light, and life, and one to brood Above thee till thou wakest.—Ha? I fear Thou wilt not wake for ever, sleeping here, Where there are none but winds to visit thee, And convent fathers, and a choristry Of sisters, saying, ‘Hush!’—But I will sing Rare songs to thy pure spirit, wandering Down on the dews to heaven: I will tune The instrument of the ethereal noon, And all the choir of stars, to rise and fall In harmony and beauty musical.” He is away—and still the sickly lamp Is burning next the altar; there’s a damp, Thin mould upon the pavement, and, at morn, The monks do cross them in their blessed scorn, And mutter deep anathemas, because Of the unholy sacrilege, that was Within the sainted chapel,—for they guess’d, By many a vestige sad, how the dark rest Of Agathè was broken,—and anon They sought for Julio. The summer sun Arose and set, with his imperial disc Toward the ocean-waters, heaving brisk Before the winds,—but Julio came never: He that was frantic as a foaming river— Mad as the fall of leaves upon the tide Of a great tempest, that hath fought and died Along the forest ramparts, and doth still In its death-struggle desperately reel Round with the fallen foliage—he was gone, And none knew whither—still were chanted on Sad masses, by pale sisters, many a day, And holy requiem sung for Agathè! (End of the first Chimera.) * * * * * THE QUEEN OF MAY. BY GEORGE P. MORRIS. Like flights of singing-birds went by The rosy hours of girlhood’s day; When in my native bowers, Of simple buds and flowers, They wove a crown and hailed me Queen of May! Like airy nymphs the lasses came Spring’s offerings at my feet to lay; The crystal from the fountains, The green boughs from the mountains, They brought to cheer and shade the Queen of May! Around the May-pole on the green, A fairy ring, they tript away!— All merriment and pleasure, To chords of tuneful measure, They bounded by the happy Queen of May!