yond
has been torn to pieces and sloped, and the palace built upon it.
Every house in sight is new. The very ground in front on which I look
down has been raised, and the terrace on which I sit has been built.
The ponds have been excavated, the mimic rocky hills have been piled
up, and the water led to the brink of the tiny precipice from the
artesian wells which supply this part of Paris.

The hum of many voices and the dash of waters make a deep undertone,
and one comes away with the feeling--not exactly that the scene is
too good to last, but--of regret that the result of such lavish care
should be ephemeral. In a few months all on the left side of the river
may again be parade-ground, and the thirty thousand troops which can
be readily man[oe]uvred upon it be getting ready for another conflict,
while the palace which the Genius of the Lamp had builded, as in
a night, shall be a thing of the past, as if whirled away by the
malevolent magician.

EDWARD H. KNIGHT.

SENIORITY.

Child! Such thou seemest to me that am more old
In sorrow than in years,
With that long pain that turns us bitter cold,
Far worse than these hot tears

Of thine, that fall so fast upon my breast.
I know they ease thy grief:
I know they comfort, and will bring thee rest,
Thou poor wind-shaken leaf!

Ah yes, thy storm will pass, thy skies will clear.
Thou smilest beneath my kiss:
Lift up the blue eyes cleansed by weeping, dear,
Of every thought amiss.

What seest thou, child, in these dry eyes of mine?
Grief that hath spent its tears--
Grief that its right to weeping must resign,
Not told by days, but years.

The bitterest is that weeping of the heart
That mounts not to the eyes:
In its lone chamber we sit down apart,
And no one hears our cries.

It comes to this with every deep, true soul:
'Tis neither kill nor cure,
But a strong sorrow held in strong control,
A girding to endure.

For no such soul lives in this tangled world
But, like Achilles' heel,
Hath in the quick a shaft too truly hurled--
Flesh growing round the steel.

And with its outcome would come all Life's flood:
Joy is so twined with pain,
Sweetness and tears so blended in our blood,
They will not part again.

For at the last the heart grows round its grief,
And holds it without strife:
So used we are, we cry no