se who prune the stocks and tread the press.
The spirit melts beneath the mastering sense
Of supreme beauty and beneficence,
Power divine and awful gentleness.

No space for sadness in the heart to-day,
Seeing the generous, faithful earth fulfill
The springtide promise of vine, field and hill
When bush and hedge were rosy-flushed with May.
Yet at the threshold of fruition fain
We pause to catch the savor once again
Of sweet expectancy. The perfect year
In fourfold beauty rounds itself at length,
With golden fullness of developed strength,
Into the sure, complete, unswerving sphere.

This the result of frozen winter-rains,
Of hard, white snows, of dull, loud-dripping thaw,
Of showers and shine of spring, of March blasts raw,
Of glaring August heats,--these dainty grains,
This fruitage delicate. O sluggard soul!
What harvest reapest thou as seasons roll?
Mayhap to thee the slow results of time
Bring also profit, though thy fruit, hung high,
Escape the glance of careless passers-by,
A seeming fragile husk of empty rhyme.

Yet there are those who know what fed the root,
What long, dull tedium as of wintry hours,
What rapture as of spring-light after showers,
Went to the ripening of this strange, frail fruit.
Defeat and hope, disaster, joy and pain,
Grief, pleasure and despair--the same old train
That follows every soul. No grafted seed,
No alien harvest this, but a true part
Of the whole being--soul and pulse and heart--
That from the living bough is lightly freed.

EMMA LAZARUS.

ORCO.

FROM THE FRENCH OF GEORGE SAND.

We were as usual assembled in the arbor. The evening was stormy, the air
heavy and the sky charged with black clouds furrowed with frequent
lightnings. We were keeping a melancholy silence, as if the gloom of the
atmosphere had reached our hearts, disposing us involuntarily to tears.
Beppa, particularly, seemed given up to sorrowful thoughts. In vain had
the abbe, alarmed at the disposition of the company, tried several times
and in every way to reanimate the gayety, usually so sparkling, of our
friend. Neither questions, teasing nor entreaties succeeded in drawing
her from her reverie: her eyes fixed on the sky, her fingers wandering
carelessly over the trembling strings of her guitar, she seemed not to
notice wha