Then we straightened up our traveling cap, and stared savagely at the outside panorama of brown fields, while we tried to imagine a life of love, truth, justice, charity;—among idiots. Later, we convinced our fellow-passengers of our sanity, by expressing our grateful appreciation of their solicitude; how could they know?—and assurance of our complete recovery. _LOVE’S DESTINY._ Where the gray crag kisses the virgin sky, And the fledgling eagles half-famished cry, Where the sun’s kind glance warms the cloud to tears, And the snow-bank clings to the earth for years; Where the lichens starve and the sad winds mourn, There, a host of cupids at eve were born. They came tumbling out from their rocky nest, Nor regretful wailed for the rugged breast; But astride the crest of a stream as blue As the star-lit sky; with their arrows true, Downy, sun-tipped wings and the briefest legs, Just like dear young ducklings released from eggs. They are fluttering, splashing in frolic gay, Whirling here and there in the misty spray; Now, anon, down dizziest steeps they glide, All demurely, roguishly, side by side; In their path, huge bowlders await, but see! With a somersault they are passed in glee. Through a rock-bound glen next they gurgling go. ’Neath caressing, whispering branches, low, For a splashing romp, undisturbed by fear, In a broad lake, billowy, deep and clear; But they’re nearing, blindly, the crumbling edge Of a ragged, cruel and treacherous ledge; While those countless myriads are hurrying in,— Crowding, racing, chasing from brim to brim: Hark! With hands clasped over an aching breast, A poor Soul moans, “Come to me, Love, and rest; Long and patiently have I watched for you: Fill my heart and home with yourselves so true.” Do you hear them chant, in their rapturous glee, “Never tires Love, Soul; we are not for thee. We must on and on, like the water blue; Bravely wait, work, hope, till your Love finds you. Danger waits below; you are tempting Death;” She is calling, still; for, with bated breath, Has she watched, benumbed, while a sportive elf Laughing wildly, recklessly, cast himself From their midst, to the surging depths below; And she moans, “Dear Love, I shall miss you so.” “Love but laughs at dangers; fear not;” they say, “Fancy not he dies: We all live for aye.” Right over they tumbled;—she peers down to see— Not death;—but mad revels of exquisite glee: Joyous myriads whirled in the dashing spray! · · · · ·