Finding they were measuring wit with a master, and mortified at their discomfiture, the knights of the green bag drove on, leaving the victor to solitude and his own reflections. ANNUARIES, BY ALICE CAREY. I. A year has gone down silently To the dark bosom of the Past, Since I beneath this very tree Sat hoping, fearing, dreaming, last. Its waning glories, like a flame, Are trembling to the wind's light touch-- All just a year ago the same, And I--oh! I am changed so much! The beauty of a wildering dream Hung softly round declining day; A star of all too sweet a beam In Eve's flushed bosom trembling lay. Changed in its aspect, yet the same, Still climbs that star from sunset's glow, But its embraces of pale flame Clasp not the weary world from wo! Another year shall I return, And cross this solemn chapel floor, While round me memory's shrine-lamps burn-- Or shall this pilgrimage be o'er? One that I loved, grown faint with strife, When drooped and died the tenderer bloom, Folded the white tent of young life For the pale army of the tomb. The dry seeds dropping from their pods, The hawthorn apples bright as dawn, And the pale mullen's starless rods, Were just as now a year agone. But changed is every thing to me, From the small flower to sunset's glow, Since last I sat beneath this tree, A year--a little year--ago. I leaned against this broken bough, This faded turf my footstep pressed; But glad hopes that are not there now, Lay softly trembling in my breast: Trembling, for though the golden haze, Rose, as the dead leaves drifted by, As from the Vala of old days, The mournful voice of prophecy. Give woman's heart one triumph hour, Even on the borders of the grave, And thou hast given her strength and power The saddest ills of life to brave. Crush that far hope down, thou dost bring To the poor bird the tempest's wrath, Without the petrel's stormy wing To beat the darkness from its path. Once knowing mortal hope and fear, Whate'er in heaven's sweet clime thou art, Bend, pitying mother, softly near, And save, O save me from my heart! Be still pale-handed memory, My knee is trembling on the sod, The heir of immortality, A child of the eternal God. II. When last year took her mournful flight, With all her train of wo and ill, As pale processions sweep at night Across some lonesome burial hill-- My soul with sorrow for its mate, And bowed with unrequited wrong, Stood knocking at the starry gate Of the wild wondrous realm of song.