Long ago the fair world faded In mine eyes, And I burn to clasp that child. With a love more fondly wild Than when first she sweetly smiled From the skies. Long ago one lock I severed From her brow, And that sunny little tress In its shining loveliness— To my heart I fondly press Ever now. In my dreams I meet the maiden— Passing fair Far beyond the frost and snow Doth my lovely flow’ret blow— And my tears no longer flow For her there. E. H. * * * * * THE TWO WORLDS. BY HENRY B. HIRST. Like the contented peasant of the vale, Dreams it the world and never looks beyond. LOWELL. THERE was an humble village lad Who thought the round, revolving world, Mountains and plains and streams and skies, Lay in the compass of his eyes. The symphonies of the leafy woods, The melodies of the murmuring brooks, Mingling—like light, or songs of spheres— Contented his untutored ears. Confined between gigantic hills, The little hamlet, where he dwell, Never imagined land more blest Than that where it had made its nest. And so our simple village boy, With thoughtless urchins like himself, Chatting with brooks and birds and flowers, Ran swiftly through his childish hours. But manhood, like a shadow, rose And stood before his growing eyes— With aspirations, such as start To being in the ambitious heart. Somehow—he knew not whence it came— The fancy of a nobler world Than that in which his soul now pined, Trembled, like moonlight, on his mind. Habit, however, made his home So very dear; he sadly threw The thought aside, and, turning back, Pursued his old accustomed track. Nevertheless, the glowing dream Followed his steps with pleading eyes, Filling his heart, wherever he went, With unaccustomed discontent. But one day hunting in the hills He saw a chamois mount a peak, Which seemed—its summit was so high— To melt and mingle with the sky. Urged by the instinct of the chase, He slowly crept from crag to crag Until he reached the dizzy height Where last the chamois met his sight. Before him, in the morning sun, Stretching away from sky to sky, Brighter than even his soul had dreamed. His other world before him gleamed. Behind him lay the little vale Where he had spent his youthful hours; There was the cottage where he dwelt— The shrine at which he always knelt. And over-shadowing the brook, He saw the weeping-willow stand, Where, but the night before, he met His loving, lovely young FLORETTE.