THE POET .
OUR YOUTHFUL DAYS .
scarcely knew what the presence of a fellow creature was, began to tremble with strange apprehension, and crept half across the floor, whispering.
"Did she get the paper? Did she get the paper?"
His eyes were bright as diamonds, his white face was full of piteous entreaty ; his voice sounded like the heart-broken prayer of a dying man.
They did not speak to him, but drew back, and partly closed the door upon him. Then a wild shriek broke from the dungeon, a cry of anguish so terrible that the page covered his face with both hands, and went staggering through the dark passage like a drunken creature.
"Oh! if I could but take it back- if I could tear this one sin from my soul!"
The governor heard this cry of anguish, but did not comprehend the words. He had witnessed too many scenes like the one they had left to tremble at the sight.
"Have no apprehension," he said. " They will not find him here in the morning, rest content ; not even the king knows all the secrets of the Bastile.
(TO BE CONTINUED. )
POET.
BY FRANCES HENRIETTA SHEFFIELD
THE Poet is, must ever be,
Oh, Freedom ! on thy glorious side ;
True poetry is grandly free,
It will no narrow bounds abide.
Like the untrammeled minds of Heaven,
With sweet and purifying force,
It winnows the vast universe,
And glad results attend its course.
Or as some river, broad and free,
It sweeps with fertilizing flow,
And barren wastes and desert wilds,
Transfigured, to new Edens grow.
Yet oft the poet's heart is sad,
With senses keener than his kind,
He feels far-off the great events
Undreamed of by the common mind.
And mad enthusiast is the cry
The skeptic herd around him raise ;
Yet in his ear, unheard of them,
The glorious march of progress plays.
Oh, Poet! prophet ye are one,
Chanting in verse your prophecies ;
Your pulse keeps time to the grand beat
Of revolutions' destinies.
The world applauds established truth ;
You kiss and bless the new-born child ;
Behold afar its triumph hour,
L'en while ' tis hunted and reviled.
Where'er new good supplants old wrong
You'll find the poet's helping hand;
His verse the sad reformer cheers,
And stirs, like battle-call, the land.
Oh, Poet! blessed is thy lot,
Though lonely and misjudged of men ;
The darling of the gods art thou,
Sharing the secrets known to them.
YOUTHFUL
DAYS.
BY J. WILLIAM VAN NAMEE .
OUR youthful days are fled for aye,
And we are older grown ;
Then let us not recall again
The joys and pains we've known;
For 'mong the memories of the past
Are many shadows deep ;
And if we call them up again,!
We can but sigh and weep.
Weep o'er the broken idols there,
And faded dreams so bright,
When we thought life a happy day,
Filled with the sunbeams bright ;
And in those early days of life,
With joyous, buoyant heart,
We learned the lesson sweet to love,
But soon we learned to part.
For death, with icy fingers, closed
Around our loved ones dear,
And sunbeams turned to shadows then,
And sorrow lingered near ;
And as we journey on in life
We feel the weight of years,
And know how vain are all regrets,
And sighs, and dreams, and tears.
Then let us not recall the past,
But leave it buried there,
And to the future turn our gaze,
And overcome despair.
Our youthful days are fled for nye,
With all their care and pain;
And as we journey on in life,
Recall them not again,
