fast slipping through his fingers, and confessed at last that were he "soberly and mathematically convinced" of his own inspiration, he would give himself up to the cultivation of literature. But he died at the early age of forty-six, from the effects of a wound received in the cause of Science. A singular retribution befell him, a truly poetic justice: all his scientific writings have disappeared--were either stolen before his executors had time to examine his papers, or had been destroyed by his own ruthless hand--and all that was left to keep his memory alive were the two tragedies and the few scattered fragments of verse of which he had made so little account during his lifetime. Their circle of readers has necessarily been small, but choice. There are few left, besides Browning and Proctor and John Forster, of his original admirers, and his name seems to be another on the long list of those who have failed, as the world counts failure. But the poets know better, and among their undying brotherhood space will always be kept for this strayed singer. KATE HILLARD. HARVEST. Gray orchards starred with fruitage gold and red, Field beyond field of yellow-tasseled corn, Rippling responsive to each breath of morn. Along the Southern wall the dark vines shed Their splendid clusters, blue-black and pale green, With liquid sunshine through their thin films seen. In yonder mead the haymakers at work With lusty sounds the clear tense air fulfill, Rearing the shapely hayrick's mimic hill, The dried grass tossing with light-wielded fork. Daylong the reapers glean the bladed gold; High to the topmost orchard branches climb The apple-gatherers, and from each limb Shake the ripe globes of sweetness, downward rolled Upon the leaf-strewn ground; and all day long From the near vineyard comes the merry song Of those who prune the stocks and tread the press. The spirit melts beneath the mastering sense Of supreme beauty and beneficence, Power divine and awful gentleness. No space for sadness in the heart to-day, Seeing the generous, faithful earth fulfill The springtide promise of vine, field and hill When bush and hedge were rosy-flushed with May. Yet at the threshold of fruition fain We pause to catch the savor once again Of sweet expectancy. The perfect year In fourfold beauty rounds itself at length, With golden fullness of developed strength, Into the sure, complete, unswerving sphere.