And as the billows dance and play Beneath the lingering light, The sailor sees far in the sea A strange and fearful sight; For temple, tower and palace gleam I’ the sunset’s golden sheen; And ghostly people walk the streets Like a crowd of living men. Oh, human heart! art thou not like That city lost of old With all thy glittering towers of pride, And buried joys untold. The tides of life rush over thee, But cannot sweep away The temples of thine early hopes— Thine halls of imagery. And from thy depths there comes a tone— A music sad and low; The requiem of thy buried loves, That perished long ago. And gloriously thy visions gleam I’ the light of memory; Oh, human heart! art thou not like That city of the sea. * * * * * THE OLD NEW HOUSE. BY H. HASTINGS WELD. Many a kind heart beats under a rough exterior. Such a heart was old Simon Gray’s, and in appearance he was rude and uncourtly enough. People said he was crazed, but his madness never was exhibited in any unkindness, or in any injustice. Nor was he at all deficient in his business management, or incoherent in his conversation, when he chose to converse. Simon was a man of few words—to others—though his lips often moved, as if he talked to himself. When he did speak audibly there was good will even in his harshest tone; and the pale blue eyes, which were deep set under his bushy brows, beamed with kindness, when once you had passed their forbidding portals. Strange boys and chance comers were afraid of the old man, as he sat at the door of the _old new house_ where he had dwelt for many, many years in bachelorhood; but those who knew him had always a kind word, and he had a cheerful answer. His especial pet was a little fair-haired girl, whom he seemed to love with the affection of a protector as well as parent. He tried to shield her that even the wind might not visit her too roughly; and she on her part looked up to him with a confidence, love, and trust, which would make it seem almost that she knew him to be more than human. Both are dead now, else might we not write this story, for it would have given the old man pain, and made a revelation to the young child of which she died happily ignorant. Nor, so far as we know are there any, who under our altered names of persons and places, and the absence of dates, will recognize the characters. If there are, they will admit that we do old Simon no more than justice; or if they knew him but slightly they will love a