Without, the village street was paved with gold; the river ran red with the reflection of the leaves. Within, the faces of friends brightened the gloomy walls; the returning footsteps of the long-absent gladdened the threshold; and all the sweet amenities of social life again resumed their interrupted reign. KAVANAGH. The morrow was a bright September morn; The earth was beautiful as if new-born; There was that nameless splendor everywhere, That wild exhilaration in the air,

Which makes the passers in the city street
Congratulate each other as they meet.

THE FALCON Of Sir Federigo, Tales of a Wayside Inn.
Strong and great, a hero.

...

TO THE DRIVING CLOUD.

SEPTEMBER 30.

The country is lyric, - the town dramatic. When mingled, they make the most perfect musical drama.

O sweet illusions of Song,

KAVANAGH.

That tempt me everywhere,
In the lonely fields, and the throng
Of the crowded thoroughfare.

FATA MORGANA.

Love is sunshine, hate is shadow,

Life is checkered shade and sunshine,

Rule by love, O Hiawatha.

HIAWATHA

Mickle, 1734; Horatio Nelson, 1758.

SEPTEMBER 30.

Euripides, 480 B. c.

BOSTON.

ST. BOTOLPH'S TOWN! Hither across the plains
And fens of Lincolnshire, in garb austere,
There came a Saxon monk, and founded here
A Priory, pillaged by marauding Danes,
So that thereof no vestige now remains;
Only a name, that, spoken loud and clear,
And echoed in another hemisphere,

Survives the sculptured walls and painted panes.
St. Botolph's Town! Far over leagues of land
And leagues of sea looks forth its noble tower,
And far around the chiming bells are heard;
So may that sacred name forever stand

A landmark, and a symbol of the power,
That lies concentred in a single word.

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