THE NEW PARIS.

A HOME FANCY.

How strange are, wife, the freaks of dreams!
How quaintly does the mocking night
Weave that which is with that which seems,
To cheat with shows our sleeping sight!
Last night, my last word breathed your name;
I slept; then, mingling false and true,
Swift to my eyes a vision came
In antique guise, and yet of you.

Methought I breathed on Ida's side,
In Ilium's days, that Dardan boy
To whom Dione gave that bride,
The wonder, boast, and doom of Troy;
Hush'd was the noon; down on my eyes
A glory swam with sudden awe;
Here the great-Pallas the wise,
And her-the Queen of smiles-I saw.

Hermes alone, beside was there;

A golden fruit the wing'd one bore:

66

This, unto her who is most fair,

"Give thou!" he said; nor said he more.
Then heard I voices lure me straight,
Gifts fit for Gods in every voice;
Power-wisdom-beauty-seem'd to wait
Upon the breath that told my choice.

O what had I with thrones to do?
Cold wisdom's gifts why should I prize?
I ask'd but power to live for you,
But wisdom won from those dear eyes.
A gaze that oft had Gods beguiled
Met mine; Dione from me drew
The golden triumph as she smiled,
And, smiling, for it, proffered you.

YES, wife, I'd be a throned king,
That you might share my royal seat,
That titled beauty I might bring
And princes' homage to your feet.
How quickly, then, would nobles see
Your courtly grace-your regal mien;
Even duchesses all blind should be
To flaw or speck in you, their Queen.

Poor wish! O wife, a queen you are,
To whose feet many a subject brings
A truer homage, nobler far

Than bends before the thrones of kings.
You rule a realm, wife, in this heart
Where not one rebel fancy 's seen,
Where hopes and smiles, how joyous! start
To own the sway of you, their Queen.

How loyal are my thoughts by day!
How faithful is each dream of night!
Not one but lives but to obey
Your rule, to serve you, its delight;
My hours each instant-every breath
Are, wife, as all have ever been,
Your slaves, to serve you unto death;
O wife, you are indeed a Queen!

MY PICTURE GALLERY.

YES, I am fond of pictures; how I love to wander through, With delight,

A gallery such as this is! 'Tis a pleasure ever new

To my sight;

Yet, though I've not a masterpiece that pencil ever drew,
My heart has its own gallery, with pictures not a few;
Yes, friend, I have my paintings rare, and, trust me, sweet
ones, too,

Seen aright.

There, landscapes I can look on, fine as Turner's to my eyes.

What a joy

For me within the glory of their golden radiance lies!

From annoy,

From care I turn, with rapture still, to see their mountains

rise,

To gaze upon their rivers, and entrance me with their

skies,

More radiant than the sunniest Cuyps, the Claudes that most you prize

And enjoy.

Ah, in my silent gallery, priceless portraits too are hung

I adore,

As fine as those that Titian's mighty hand has ever flung

Glory o'er.

There are my Vandycks and Reynoldses, I love to stroll among,

More than through those whose praise and fame around the world are rung

These, than Rembrandts or your Raphaels rare, so praised by every tongue,

I love more.

O, Memory, mighty painter! these I prize are from your hand.

How they start

To colour, life, and motion, at the waving of your wand!

When apart

[stand, From men, and talk, and bustle, I before them, musing, How precious forms and faces, and dear scenes of sea and

land,

[grand,

Than ever colours imaged yet, more tender, sweet, and

Charm my heart.

There are dim-remembered places that once felt my infant feet

Long ago;

There are woods and playgrounds nearer, bedroom, parlour, school, and street

That I know;

Field and lane, and sand and seashore, trodden by my boyish feet,

Or later, firmer steps, that make my heart with pleasure

beat;

Old labours and old troubles, ah! old sorrows now seem

sweet,

That they show.

There the faces that I look on, and the forms that there

How tender, soft, and dream-like seems their beauty there

to me,

And how dear!

Sister-brothers-father-mother, as they are and used

to be

To my baby sight-my boy's eyes, seen in sorrow, thought, and glee,

Those dead to us in distance—those in eternity

They are here.

With old smiles they're ever smiling, with old sorrows there they grieve;

O, how still!

My brain, with dreams and shadows that my fancy used

to weave,

How they fill!

The kind-the feared the false-old looks that fondle, scare, deceive

Old ringing laughs, and saddest sighs the gone for

whom we grieve—

For me the shadowy twilights of the solemn past they

leave,

At my will.

And tottering age to stirring life, the magic here beguiles; All in vain

Time would hide them. O, enchanter, here thy silent, wondrous wiles,

To thy canvasses, that glow with matchless charms of all sweet styles,

Beauty faded-life departed friendship, absent weary miles,

Call again.

On the deepening summer shadows-on the redly-glowing fire,

So she'll paint

All that eye and heart have seen, or see, or ever can desire; Clear or faint,

There she limns them, and with gladdened eyes, that never of them tire,

- sadness, of her marvels I

Ah, my pictures beat your rarest, though they may not

have a buyer,

Child or saint.

My hair is gathering gray apace;
There's silver in it seen at last;
More thin and care-worn grows my face,
And age creeps near, now youth is past;
I've known what forty years can take,
What forty changeful years can bring,
Time, perhaps, my songs less gay may make,
But, blessed be God, I still can sing.

Yes, I have lived my life's fresh Spring,
The laughing May of all my years,
When, in the light that hope can fling

On all things, earth a heaven appears;