lline lagoon,
Through the streets that mirror heaven,
Crystal paven,
In the warm Venetian noon.

At the prow the gondolier
May not hear,
May not see our furtive kiss;
But he lends with cadenced strain
The refrain
To our ripe and silent bliss.

Golden shadows, silver light,
Burnish bright
Air and water, domes and skies;
As in some ambrosial dream,
On the stream
Floats our bark in magic wise.

Oh, to float day long just so!
Naught to know
Of the trouble, toil, and fret!
This is love, and this is May:
Yesterday
And to-morrow to forget!

Whither hast thou, Fancy free,
Guided me,
Wild Bohemian sister dear?
All thy gypsy soul is stirred
Since yon bird
Warbled that the Spring was here.

Tempt no more! I may not follow,
Like the swallow,
Gayly on the track of Spring.
Bounden by an iron fate,
I must wait,
Dream and wonder, yearn and sing.

EMMA LAZARUS.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by SHELDON &
CO. in the office of Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

A PROGRESSIVE BABY.

LETTER III.

18 STANFIELD GARDENS, }
SOUTH KENSINGTON, }
May 28, 1875. }

* * * * *

And there you have us down to date, my Susie. The sunshine and the
crisp breezes, the innocent early teas with cresses and prawns, the
grand long nights full of sleep, have put us all right with the world
again; but after all Brighton's only a bit of West End moved off down
by the sea, and if one must live in London at all, why, it's at its
best for three or four weeks to come. And we're to get off early to
Switzerland this year, for fear that it mayn't be so easy next summer.
For Ronayne's father is clearing away to make him stand for that dreary
territory of hovels and bogs in which the paternal mansion is situate.
Fancy Ronayne an M.P.! And an Irish M.P.! I fight against it--under
cover. The dream of my heart is an _appartement avec tenasse_ in Paris,
and in summer to turn vagrants and tramps as now. It's so unlucky
Ronayne should have been the eldest son: duty, respectability, and the
proprieties have such a much stronger gripe upon him, and we're born
vagabonds, both.

But, what must be, must. Meanwhile I console myself with my
wi