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Single Numbers of THE LIVING AGE, 18 cents.

TO VIRGIL.

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE MANTUANS
FOR THE NINETEENTH CENTENARY OF VIR-
GIL'S DEATH.

X.

I salute thee, Mantovano,

I that loved thee since my day began, Wielder of the stateliest measure

ever moulded by the lips of man. Nineteenth Century. ALFRED TENNYSON.

I.

ROMAN VIRGIL, thou that singest

Ilion's lofty temples robed in fire,

Ilion falling, Rome arising,

wars, and filial faith, and Dido's pyre;

II.

Landscape-lover, lord of language

TWO YEARS AFTER.

THE winter morning as I write -
In the grim city's gloomy light,
Midst fogs that choke street, river, church,

more than he that sang the Works and And the fast-falling flakes besmirch

Days,

All the chosen coin of fancy

How pure o'er that far country-side

flashing out from many a golden phrase; Must gleam the snow-waste drifted wide;
In my mind's eye I see it rolled
O'er stream-gashed glen and brambly wold;

III.

Thou that singest wheat and woodland,

tilth and vineyard, hive and horse and O'er wheat-sown slope and climbing lane,

herd:

Now the Rome of slaves hath perish'd,

And ridge that bounds the battle plain;
And orchard, lawn, and garden sward-
That same white raiment of the Lord!

The church stands on the woodland hill,
The pine-trees fence the churchyard still;
Eastward it looks, that home of hers,
The robin whistles in her firs.

All seems the same; but where is she

Whose name is breathed from brake and tree?
Where lives and soars that noblest one
It raised our life to look upon?

Shall spring-tide wake the world again,
And summer light the eyes of men?
Shall throstles thrill her oaken glade,
The primrose star her hazel shade?

This icy mist, these clouds of gray,
Will they not all be wept away?
And western airs blow kindly through
Large lucid skies of tender blue?

And shall no vernal dawn await
The hopes by death left desolate ?
No shining angel brood above
The sepulchre of human love?

That brain of strength, that heart of fire,
That liquid voice, a living lyre
Do not these vibrate, throb, and burn
Where the lost lights of time return?

The aspiration, passion, power,
That crowd with fate a mortal hour,
Are these crude seeds no bloom may bless,
Beginnings bright of emptiness?

Love's shattered dream-shall it not rise

and the Rome of freemen holds her Re-builded for immortal eyes?

place,

I, from out the Northern Island

sunder'd once from all the human race,

Life's broken song end where round Him
Still quire the "young-eyed cherubim "?
Macmillan's Magazine. JOSEPH TRUMAN,