And now as the night was senescent, And the star-dials pointed to morn, And car-drivers hinted of morn. At the end of the path a liquescent And bibulous lustre was born; ’Twas made by the bar-keeper present, Who mixéd a duplicate horn,―― His two hands describing a crescent Distinct with a duplicate horn. And I said: “This looks perfectly regal, For its warm, and I know I feel dry,―― I am confident that I feel dry; We have come past the emeu and eagle, And watched the gay monkey on high; Let us drink to the emeu and eagle,―― To the swan and the monkey on high,―― To the eagle and monkey on high; For this bar-keeper will not enveigle,―― Bully boy with the vitreous eye; He surely would never inveigle,―― Sweet youth with the crystalline eye.” But Mary, uplifting her finger, Said, “Sadly this bar I mistrust,―― I fear that this bar does not trust. O hasten! O let us not linger! O fly,――let us fly,――ere we must!” In terror she cried, letting sink her Parasol till it trailed in the dust,―― In agony sobbed, letting sink her Parasol till it trailed in the dust,―― Till it sorrowfully trailed in the dust. Then I pacified Mary and kissed her, And tempted her into the room, And conquered her scruples and gloom; And we passed to the end of the vista, But were stopped by the warning of doom,―― By some words that were warning of doom, And I said, “What is written, sweet sister, At the opposite end of the room?” She sobbed, as she answered, “All liquors Must be paid for ere leaving the room.” Then my heart it grew ashen and sober, As the streets were deserted and drear,―― For my pockets were empty and drear; And I cried, “It was surely October, On this very night of last year, That I journeyed――I journeyed down here,―― That I brought a fair maiden down here, On this night of all nights in the year, Ah! to me that inscription is clear; Well I know now, I’m perfectly sober, Why no longer they credit me here,―― Well I know now that music of Auber, And this Nightingale, kept by one Shear.” BRET HARTE. ――――:o:―――― WHAT IS IN A NAME. (_From “Ravings,” by E. A. Poe_――_t._) The autumn upon us was rushing, The parks were deserted and lone―― The streets were unpeopled and lone; My foot through the sere leaves was brushing, That over the pathway were strown―― By the wind in its wanderings strown. I sighed――for my feelings were gushing Round Mnemosyne’s porphyry throne, Like lava liquescent lay gushing, And rose to the porphyry throne―― To the filigree footstool were gushing, That stands on the steps of that throne―― On the solid stone steps of that throne.