Rising clear beyond the bridge, the approach to it on the other side hidden by the lowness of the point of view, stands the palace of the Trocadero, a broad sweep of green covering the hill, along whose summit are the widespread wings of the colonnade, uniting at the central rotunda, of which the domed roof and square campaniles rise one hundred feet above all and dominate the middle of the picture. The traces of the indefatigable swarms of workmen are obliterated, except in the magical and finished work. The spray of the fountains of the chateau d'eau drifts to leeward and hides at times patches of the velvety grass on the hill. The central jet plays sturdily, and from where I sit appears to reach the level of the second corridor of the rotunda. The eye fails to detect a single object, excepting the four statues on the bridge, which is not the creation of a few months. The hill beyond has been torn to pieces and sloped, and the palace built upon it. Every house in sight is new. The very ground in front on which I look down has been raised, and the terrace on which I sit has been built. The ponds have been excavated, the mimic rocky hills have been piled up, and the water led to the brink of the tiny precipice from the artesian wells which supply this part of Paris. The hum of many voices and the dash of waters make a deep undertone, and one comes away with the feeling--not exactly that the scene is too good to last, but--of regret that the result of such lavish care should be ephemeral. In a few months all on the left side of the river may again be parade-ground, and the thirty thousand troops which can be readily man[oe]uvred upon it be getting ready for another conflict, while the palace which the Genius of the Lamp had builded, as in a night, shall be a thing of the past, as if whirled away by the malevolent magician. EDWARD H. KNIGHT. SENIORITY. Child! Such thou seemest to me that am more old In sorrow than in years, With that long pain that turns us bitter cold, Far worse than these hot tears Of thine, that fall so fast upon my breast. I know they ease thy grief: I know they comfort, and will bring thee rest, Thou poor wind-shaken leaf! Ah yes, thy storm will pass, thy skies will clear. Thou smilest beneath my kiss: Lift up the blue eyes cleansed by weeping, dear, Of every thought amiss. What seest thou, child, in these dry eyes of mine? Grief that hath spent its tears-- Grief that its right to weeping must resign, Not told by days, but years. The bitterest is that weeping of the heart That mounts not to the eyes: In its lone chamber we sit down apart, And no one hears our cries. It comes to this with every deep, true soul: 'Tis neither kill nor cure, But a strong sorrow held in strong control, A girding to endure.