he might as frequently have been found sauntering
under the magnificent trees of the Poggio Imperiale avenue in the
immediate vicinity of his own house. Upright in figure and in carriage
as ever, and with his eye as bright as ever, it was difficult to suppose
that the venerable and stalwart figure of the old sculptor was not
destined still for years of life and activity. His malady was connected
with the respiratory organs; and a specially painful circumstance of it
for his friends was, that the loss of voice, which made the effort of
talking injurious to him, rendered it a selfish and inconsiderate thing
to visit him; for the activity of his mind was still such that in the
contact with another mind he could not abstain from the old familiar
intercourse which he had loved so well. Like the old camel of the
Arabian tale, that, having been all its life accustomed to lead the
caravan, died in the effort to keep his old place to the last, Powers,
who had been always wont to have rather the lion's share of
conversation, could not resign himself to hear another talk, in silence.
He _would_ talk, and suffered for it afterward. The result was that
his friends felt that they were showing the best consideration for him
by staying away.

To look at him, I say, as he would stand in the sunshine at his own
gate, it was difficult to imagine that aught of a very serious nature
ailed him. But in the case of a man so habitually active his sauntering
there was a bad sign. He was emphatically one of those men with whom
life and work are the same thing--one whose sun was at the setting when
he could work no more, and who would probably have cared little to
survive his capacity for working.

T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE.

CORN.

To-day the woods are trembling through and through
With shimmering forms, that flash into my view,
Then melt in green as dawn-stars melt in blue.
The leaves that wave against my cheek caress
Like women's hands; the embracing boughs express
A subtlety of mighty tenderness;
The copse-depths into little noises start,
That sound anon like beatings of a heart,
Anon like talk 'twixt lips not far apart.
The beech dreams balm, as a dreamer hums a song,
Through whose vague sweet float expirations strong
From lithe young hickories, breathing deep and long
With stress and urgence bold of inward spring,
And ecstasy of burgeoning.
Now, since the dew-plashed