When Genoa's prowess was humbled, Her galleys beat back from our shore! O great Contareno! your ashes What! tears in your eyes, my Giulia? Whose face never more you shall see? Kneel, girl, kneel beside me and whisper, While to Heaven for vengeance you pray, "Viva! Evivva Italia! Viva il Re !" Shame, shame on the weakness that held you, And shame on the heart that was won! No blood of the gonfaloniere Shall mingle with blood of the Hun! "Viva! Evivva Italia! Hark! heard you the gun from the mola! The friends of our Venice are near! Emily R. Page. AMERICAN. Miss Page (1838-1860) was a native of Bradford, Vt. She was a toll-gatherer's daughter, and her poem of "The Old Canoe," written when she was eighteen years of age, is a pen-picture of an actual scene near the old bridge just back of her home. She wrote some fugitive pieces for M. M. Ballou's Boston publications, but died young. "The Old Canoe" was extensively copied, and at one time credited to Eliza Cook. The image of the "useless paddles" crossed over the railing "like the folded hands when the work is done," is a true stroke of genius. THE OLD CANOE. Where the rocks are gray, and the shore is steep, And the waters below look dark and deep, Where the rugged pine, in its lonely pride, Leans gloomily over the murky tide; Where the reeds and rushes are long and rank, And the weeds grow thick on the winding bank; Where the shadow is heavy the whole day through, Lies at its moorings the old canoe. The useless paddles are idly dropped, The stern half sunk in the slimy wave, Like the hand that plants o'er the tomb a flower, The currentless waters are dead and still- It floats the length of its rusty chain, Oh, many a time, with a careless hand, I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand, And paddled it down where the stream runs quick— Where the whirls are wild and the eddies are thick And laughed as I leaned o'er the rocking side, And looked below in the broken tide, To see that the faces and boats were two That were mirrored back from the old canoe. But now, as I lean o'er the crumbling side, Ere the blossom waved, or the green grass grew, Abba Goold Woolson. AMERICAN. Mrs. Woolson, a native of Windham, Me., was born in 1838, and educated at the Portland High School. She is the wife of Mr. M. Woolson, a teacher in the English High School, Boston. Her "Carpe Diem" is one of the few realistic love-poems as true to nature in the sentiment as to art in the construction. CARPE DIEM. Ah, Jennie dear, 'tis half a year Since we sang late and long, my love; As home o'er dusky fields we came, While Venus lit her tender flame In silent plains above. I scarcely knew if rain or dew Had made the grass so fresh and sweet; I only felt the misty gloom Was filled with scent of hidden bloom In songs we tried our hearts to hide, Thus singing still we reached the hill, And on it faced a breeze of June; White rolled the mist along the lea; But eastward flashed a throbbing sea Beneath the rising moon. Your lips apart, as if your heart Had something it would say to mine, I saw you with your dreamy glance Far sent, in some delicious trance, Beyond the silver shine. The hour supreme, that in my dream No note or word the silence stirred, As we resumed our homeward tread; Below we heard the cattle browse, And wakeful birds within the boughs Move softly overhead. The hour was late when at the gate We lingered ere we spake adieu; Your white hand plucked from near the door A lily's queenly cup, and tore Each waxen leaf in two. My hope grew bold, and I had told Anew my love, my fate had known; But then a quick Good-night I heard, A sudden whirring like a bird, And there I stood alone. Thus love-bereft my heart was left, Yes, Jennie, dear, 'tis half a year, But all my doubts, my tears are flown; For did I not on yesternight Read once again your love aright, David Gray. In 1862 appeared a small volume, "The Luggie, and other Poems," by David Gray (1838-1861), son of a handloom weaver at Merkland, Scotland. The Luggie is a mere unpretending rivulet, flowing into one of the tributaries of the Clyde; but Gray was born on its banks, and loved its every aspect. He died early of consump tion. James Hedderwick, Lord Houghton, and Robert Buchanan have written tributes to his memory. In the near view of death he continued to find his solace in giving expression to his poetic fancies. WINTRY WEATHER. O Winter, wilt thou never, never go? DIE DOWN, O DISMAL DAY. Die down, O dismal day, and let me live; O God, for one clear day, a snowdrop, and sweet air! IF IT MUST BE. If it must be-if it must be, O God! That I die young, and make no further moans; Oh, the sweet melancholy of the time, And faintly from the faint eternal blue Mary Clemmer. AMERICAN. Mary Clemmer, the daughter of Abram Clemmer, was born in Utica, N. Y., and educated at the Academy in Westfield, Mass. Her ancestors on both sides for centuries were "unworldly, bookish, deeply religious persons ;" and she seems to have inherited their best traits. She began her literary carcer as a newspaper correspondent, and became one of the most accomplished of the Washington letter-writers. She is the author of "Ten Years in Washington" (1872); "A Memorial of Alice. and Phebe Cary;" and "His Two Wives," a novel. Her style is at once facile, fluent, and brilliant. Her emotional nature is plainly that of the born poet. She has contributed largely to the Independent and other wellknown journals. AN OCTOBER MUSING. Ere the last stack is housed, and woods are bare, Is soaked in mist, or shrivelled up with frost,— Of a fair form, life with reluctance leaves, Taken up in the huge dolor of all things, I wait, WAITING. Till from my veiléd brows shall fall Into all Being's mystery, See what it really is to be! I wait, While robbing days in mockery fling I wait! For surely every scanty seed I plant in weakness and in need |