Between the two, a mouldy nook Where loungers hunt for things of worthEngraving, curio, or book— Here drifted from all over Earth. Be the day's traffic more or less, Old Brian seeks his Leyden chair Placed in the ante-room's recess, Our connoisseur's securest lair: Here, turning full the burner's rays, Holds long his treasure-trove in sight, Upon a painting sets his gaze Like some devoted eremite. The book-worms rummage as they will, A life no more the world shall know, Withered the dealer's face, and old, But wearing yet the first surprise Of him whose eyes the light behold Of Italy and Paradise: Forever blest, forever young, The rapt Madonna poises there, See from the graybeard's meerschaum float With less ecstatic worship lay, Before his marble goddess prone, The crippled poet, that last day When in the Louvre he made his moan. Warm grows the radiant masterpiece,— The sweetness of Correggio! The visionary hues increase,- In Rome, Bologna, Florence, all,— A real Correggio? And here! 1 Yes, to the one impassioned heart, Transfiguring all, the strokes appear That mark the perfect master's art. You question of the proof? You owe More faith to fact than fancy? Hush! Look with expectant eyes, and know, With him, the hand that held the brush! The same wild thought that warmed from stone The Venus of the monkish Gest, The image of Pygmalion, Here finds Correggio confessed. And Art requires its votary: The Queen of Heaven herself may pine When these quaint rooms no longer see The one that knew her all divine. Ah, me! ah me, for centuries veiled! With that unquestioning soul away— Whose faith compelled the sun, the stars, THE WORLD WELL LOST. That year? Yes, doubtless I remember still,- Crops failed; wealth took a flight; house, treasure, land, There was a war, methinks; some rumor, too, That year my white-faced Alma pined and died: Was there no more? Yes, that year life began: All after-life compressed within the span Of that one year, the year I met with Rose ! Ributions Stevenson NORTH-WEST PASSAGE. I. GOOD-NIGHT. When the bright lamp is carried in, Now we behold the embers flee Like pictures, on the window-glass. Must we to bed indeed? Well then, Farewell, O brother, sister, sire! 2. SHADOW MARCH. All around the house is the jet-black night; It crawls in the corners, hiding from the light, Now my heart goes a-beating like a drum, The shadow of the balusters, the shadow of the lamp. The shadow of the child that goes to bed— All the wicked shadows coming, tramp, tramp, tramp, With the black night overhead. 3. IN PORT. Last, to the chamber where I lie There, safe arrived, we turn about Then, when mamma goes by to bed, |