218 BEAUTIFUL CHILD. With the lurid light of a fiery crown- Beautiful child in my garden bowers, Beautiful child, to thy look is given A gleam serene-not to earth, but of heaven; And kneeling beside me with figure so quaint' Beautiful child, what thy fate shall be, Beautiful child, mayst thou soar above, BENEDICK ON LOVE. Floating, flowering evermore, In the blessed light of the golden shore. And thy radiant face, they dispel my gloom; And His love protect my beautiful child. 219 By the Author of "Beautiful Snow." BENEDICK ON LOVE. I DO much wonder that one man, seeing how much another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviours to love, will, after he hath laughed at such shallow follies, become the argument of his own scorn by falling in love. And such a man is Claudio. I have known when there was no music with him but the drum and the fife; and now he would rather hear the tabor and the pipe. I have known when he would have walked ten miles afoot to see a good armour; and now will he lie ten nights awake carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to speak plain and to the purpose, like an honest man and a soldier; and now is he turned orthographer; his words are a very fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes. May I be so converted and see with these eyes? I cannot tell; I think not. I will not be sworn, but love may transform me to an oyster; but, I'll take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster of me, he shall never make me such a fool. One woman is fair: yet I am well; another virtuous: yet I am well; but, till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come into my grace. Rich shall she be, that's certain; wise, or I'll none; virtuous, or I'll never cheapen her; fair, or I'll never look on her; mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall be of what colour it please God. Shakespere. 220 BEAUTIFUL SNOW. BEAUTIFUL SNOW. A few years ago this poem appeared in the American papers. The beauty of the composition secured its republication in numerous journals, and at length it found its way to England, accompanied by the tale that the original had been discovered upon the person of a young woman who was frozen to death. For a long time the author preserved his incognito. Some months since the secret was revealed, and Major Sigourney, nephew of the celebrated poetess of that name, became known as the writer. On the night of April 22, 1871, Major Sigourney was found dead in the outskirts of New York, under circumstances leading to the belief that he had shot himself. He had in early life married a Miss Filmore, a lady of great personal attractions, and with her made a voyage to Europe. During their absence rumours unfavourable to her character reached the Sigourney family. The reports seem to have been well founded; for, shortly after her return to New York, she showed that the curse of the nineteenth century-drink-had another victim to its list. She abandoned her husband, became an outcast, and was next heard of as an inmate of the penitentiary on Blackwell's Island. Her husband's love was still sufficiently strong to induce him to make another attempt to save her, and, through his influence, she was released only again to desert her home. In the winter of 1853 the papers spoke of a young and beautiful woman having been found dead, under the snow, in a disreputable street in New York. Something seemed to tell Sigourney that the body was that of his wife. Upon making inquiries he found his surmises but too true, and, after claiming the remains, he had them interred in that picturesque "silent city" which overlooks the busy harbour of New York. The story of that erring wife is told in this touching poem. The cirBumstances connected with Sigourney's death remain a mystery. OH! the snow, the beautiful snow, Over the heads of the people you meet; Dancing flirting-skimming along Beautiful snow! it can do no wrong; Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow, Chasing-laughing-hurrying by, BEAUTIFUL SNOW. How wild the crowd goes swaying along, Over the crust of the beautiful snow; Snow so pure when it falls from the sky, To be trampled and tracked by thousands of feet, Once I was pure as snow, but I fell, Fell like the snow-flakes from heaven to hell; Pleading cursing-dreading to die, Once I was fair as the beautiful snow, With an eye like a crystal, a heart like its glow; God and myself I have lost by my fall. There is nothing so pure as the beautiful snow. How strange it should be that this beautiful snow How strange it should be when the night comes again, Too wicked for prayer, too weak for a moan, With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow. 221 222 ALEXANDER AND DIOGENES. Helpless and foul as the trampled snow, His accents of mercy fell soft on thine ear "Is there mercy for me? Will he heed my weak prayer?" Oh God! in the stream that for sinners did flow, Wash me and I shall be whiter than snow. By the Author of "Beautiful Child." ALEXANDER AND DIOGENES. SLOWLY the monarch turned aside : "Ay, go thy way, thou painted thing, And scarcely guessing, that beneath |