"She talked with a strange smile of her father; she wanted to visit his grave again. She took the rose from her bosom--it was from his grave--and kissed it, and then--crushed it in her hand--'Oh, God! what should I do now with flowers?' said she. "I never saw her again. She went to her father's grave--but not to pick roses. "_She is there now_," said the abbe. There was a long pause. The abbe did not want to speak--nor did I. At length I asked if he knew any thing of Remy. "You may see him any day up the Champs Elysiens," said the abbe. "Ah, _mon ami_, there are many such. Poverty and shame may not come on him again; wealth may pamper him, and he may fatten on the world's smiles; but there is a time coming--it is coming, _mon cher_, when he will go away--where God judgeth, and not man." Our dinner was ended. The abbe and myself took a _voiture_ to go to Pere la Chaise. Just within the gateway, a little to the right of the carriage-track, were two tablets, side by side--one was older than the other. The lesser one was quite new; it was inscribed simply--"Marie, 1846." There were no flowers; even the grass was hardly yet rooted about the smaller grave--but I picked a rose-bud from the grave of the old man. I have it now. Before I left Paris, I went down into the old corridor again, in the Rue de Seine. I looked up in the court at the little window at the top. A new occupant had gone in; the broken glass was re-set, and a dirty printed curtain was hanging over the lower half. I had rather have seen it empty. I half wished I had never seen _Le Petit Soulier_. EARLY ENGLISH POETS. BY ELIZABETH J. EAMES. MILTON. Learned and illustrious of all Poets thou, Whose Titan intellect sublimely bore The weight of years unbent; thou, on whose brow Flourish'd the blossom of all human lore-- How dost thou take us back, as 't were by vision, To the grave learning of the Sanhedrim; And we behold in visitings Elysian, Where waved the white wings of the Cherubim; But, through thy "Paradise Lost," and "Regained," We might, enchanted, wander evermore. Of all the genius-gifted thou hast reigned King of our hearts; and, till upon the shore Of the Eternal dies the voice of Time, Thy name shall mightiest stand--pure, brilliant, and sublime. DRYDEN. Not dearer to the scholar's eye than mine, (Albeit unlearned in ancient classic lore,) The daintie Poesie of days of yore-- The choice old English rhyme--and over thine, Oh! "glorious John," delightedly I pore-- Keen, vigorous, chaste, and full of harmony, Deep in the soil of our humanity It taketh root, until the goodly tree Of Poesy puts forth green branch and bough, With bud and blossom sweet. Through the rich gloom Of one embowered haunt I see thee now, Where 'neath thy hand the "Flower and Leaflet" bloom. That hand to dust hath mouldered long ago, Yet its creations with immortal life still glow.