SONG.

I saw a knight fare gaily in the sun,

Gold was his flowing hair;

And 'fore his steed did grace and glory run

To speak him fair.

"I would I were Sir Knight," quoth I,

With tear-dimmed eye.

I saw my Lord ride forth from out his gate,
Gemmed all with jewels rare;

And forty thanes did follow him in state
'Mid bugle blare.

"I would I were Sir Lord," quoth I,
With moody sigh.

I met my Lady in the garden shade,
Lent-lilies plucked she there ;

And by her side a little love-eyed maid,
Who smiled at me, I swear.

"I would I were none other 'neath the sky!"

Quoth I.

-Harvard Advocate.

TOUCHSTONE

The court fool played with many a jest

That flashed like a meteor bright.

And the King and his court laughed long and loud.

For they held carouse that night,

And the wine was red and the wine was free,

And their hearts were merry and light.

But the sparkling wine soon ceased to flow,

And the jests are forgotten long ago.

And sorrow came to the King and his court,

And the jester shared their woe;

When, lo, through his grief there shone a smile
And his jest was like the glow

Of the sun on his honest, loyal tears.

And the King was cheered, I trow,

And the King is dead these thousand years,

But the jest still charms a smile from tears.

-Harvard Advocate.

When 'neath my window's bars my good hounds growl,
And through the darkness frantic rushes make

At unseen foes, until the echoes wake
And lift their voices up in answering howl;
Then do I scorn the terrors of the dark,
And laugh aloud, and cry out in delight,
"No danger need I tremble at to-night-
My good hounds bark."

But when no deep-toned baying breaks the hush,
When all the silent night, my ears I strain
To hear their watchful muttering, in vain,
And the ground quakes not with their sudden rush,
Then shadowy forms my chamber seem to fill,

And stealthy footsteps on the stair I hear;
My heart leaps, quivering with nameless fear—
My hounds are still.

-Vassar Misc.

BEFORE MY FIRE.

Soft summer Isle, sleeping beneath your palms,
Rocked on the heaving bosom of the deep,
Whose snowy breakers sing the solemn psalms,
Which lull thee in thy sweet and endless sleep,
Of thee fair visions rise,

Floating before mine eyes,

While the bare trees without sway to the wild wind's sweep.

Soon will stern winter clothe our naked hills
With icy veils white as the glistening sands
Where the spent breaker, in a thousand rills,
Flies back into the ocean's outstretched hands,
Where on thy shores, fair Isles,

The languid summer smiles,

While the snow-eddies whirl in distant northern lands.

Thus do I dream, and from my fancy call
The fair, faint visions of another clime,
While the red fire-light dances on the wall,
Flinging defiance bright at winter time;
And through the fire-light's glow
These visions come and go,

Leaving behind a dreamy, discontented rhyme.

- Williams Lit.

MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.

THREE years ago Marie Bashkirtseff was known in

Parisian art circles, as a young Russian artist of a rare ability and promise that was ended by an early death. year ago she was known to French readers as the author of the Journal of Marie Bashkirtseff, and the last month has seen, in an American edition, an English translation of this Journal that appears to be one of the noteworthy books of the year, the literary topic of the hour, and, because it is unique and a vivid picture of a certain type of character, a permanent addition to the library of memoirs. Marie Bashkirtseff was born, noble and rich, in Russia in the year 1860, and developed an early ability and maturity that cannot be called precocious in the common meaning of the word, because the maturity was so rounded, and an ambition and confidence in herself, that no words but her At an age when most children are busy at their games, she writes, "I was made for triumphs and emotions", "I dream of glory, of fame, of being known throughout the world", "Fortunately or unfortunately, I esteem myself so great

own can measure.

VOL. LV.

treasure that I think there is no

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