Oh, leave me not! although thy fleeting pleasures Are but as snow-flakes in the sun’s warm ray; Though thy best gifts are only fairy treasures, A golden glitter flung o’er things of clay; Yet leave me not!—all earthly hopes have perished, And e’en thine hour of promise has gone by, But I would fain the fond illusion cherish Which still in joy or sorrow brought thee nigh. Perhaps my hand, like hers[4] in olden story, Let fall the burning drop that broke thy rest, Marring by base distrust thy veiléd glory, And scaring thee too rudely from my breast; Yet leave me not!—although thy shrine be broken, Though all its votive wreaths are long since gone, Faith lingers there, albeit the prayer, unspoken, Dies on her lip like sorrow’s half-breathed moan. ----- [4] Psyche. * * * * * IMPLORA PACE:—A VERSION. BY MRS. ELIZABETH J. EAMES. Oh, Rest! serenest rest! Mild evening of the soul— Thou soft and silent Hesperus Whose influences control The pulses of the weary-hearted— How often have our warm tears started At mention of thy name, When pictures blest of days departed Our memories overcame! Oh, Rest! serenest rest! That by the sun of Truth Art standing firm and fast, Sought after from our youth— Through all the changes of life’s lot, But oh! sad truth, we find _thee_ not! * * * * * THE FALL OF THE FAIRIES. BY HENRY B. HIRST. The night was clear and cool and calm, The evening wind, exhaling balm From spicy Caribbean isles, Perfumed the forest’s deep defiles. The mournful sister Pleiades Arose from oriental seas; Lyra no more, as once, in old, Shook harmony from her harp of gold. Silence, like God, was every where: There was no sound in earth or air: An omnipresent quietude Reposed on field and flood and wood. Serenely calm, the waning moon Rose, dreaming of the nights of June, And silently, from weeping eyes, Shed tears of silver down the skies. She seemed to walk her pilgrimage Like one who, in the frosts of age, Totters on toward the Holy Land, Impelled by some pale phantom hand.