No! through all peril unharmed, it reaches him harm

less at last,

And to its proven strength he lashes his weakness fast. Now, for the shore! But steady, steady, my men,

and slow;

Taut, now, the quivering lines; now slack; and so, let her go! Thronging the shores around stand the pitying multitude;

Wan as his own are their looks, and a nightmare seems to brood

Heavy upon them, and heavy the silence hangs on all, Save for the rapids' plunge, and the thunder of the fall. But on a sudden thrills from the people still and pale, Chorusing his unheard despair, a desperate wail: Caught on a lurking point of rock it sways and swings, Sport of the pitiless waters, the raft to which he clings.

III.

All the long afternoon it idly swings and sways;
And on the shore the crowd lifts up its hands and

prays:

Lifts to heaven and wrings the hands so helpless to

save,

Prays for the mercy of God on him whom the rock and the wave

Battle for, fettered betwixt them, and who, amidst their strife,

Struggles to help his helpers, and fights so hard for his life,

Tugging at rope and at reef, while men weep and wo

men swoon.

Priceless second by second, so wastes the afternoon, And it is sunset now; and another boat and the last Down to him from the bridge through the rapids has safely passed.

IV.

Wild through the crowd comes flying a man that nothing can stay, Maddening against the gate that is locked athwart his way.

"No! we keep the bridge for them that can help him. You,

Tell us, who are you?" "His brother!" "God help you both! Pass through."

Wild, with wide arms of imploring he calls aloud to him,

Unto the face of his brother, scarce seen in the distance dim;

But in the roar of the rapids his fluttering words are lost

As in a wind of autumn the leaves of autumn are tossed.

And from the bridge he sees his brother sever the rope Holding him to the raft, and rise secure in his hope; Sees all as in a dream the terrible pageantry, Populous shores, the woods, the sky, the birds flying

free;

Sees, then, the form, - that, spent with effort and fasting and fear,

Flings itself feebly and fails of the boat that is lying

so near,

Caught in the long-baffled clutch of the rapids, and rolled and hurled

Headlong on to the cataract's brink, and out of the

world.

GOAT ISLAND.

William Dean Howells.

PEACE

EACE and perpetual quiet are around.
Upon the erect and dusky file of stems,

Sustaining yon far roof, expelling sound,
Through which the sky sparkles (a rain of gems
Lost in the forest's depth of shade), the sun
At times doth shoot an arrow of pure gold,
Flecking majestic trunks with hues of dun,
Veining their barks with silver, and betraying
Secret initials tied in true love knots;

Of hearts no longer through green alleys straying,
But stifled in the world's distasteful grots.
The silence is monastic, save in spots
Where heaves a glimmer of uncertain light,
And rich wild tones enchant the woodland night.

Thomas Gold Appleton.

I

THE CATARACT ISLE.

WANDERED through the ancient wood
That crowns the cataract isle.

I heard the roaring of the flood

And saw its wild, fierce smile.

Through tall tree-tops the sunshine flecked
The huge trunks and the ground,
And the pomp of fullest summer decked
The island all around.

And winding paths led all along
Where friends and lovers strayed,
And voices rose with laugh and song
From sheltered nooks of shade.

Through opening forest vistas whirled
The rapids' foamy flash,

As they boiled along and plunged and swirled,
And neared the last long dash.

I crept to the island's outer verge,
Where the grand, broad river fell,
Fell sheer down mid foam and surge
In a white and blinding hell.

The steady rainbow gayly shone
Above the precipice,

And the deep low tone of a thunder groan
Rolled up from the drear abyss.

And all the day sprang up the spray

Where the broad white sheets were poured,

And fell around in showery play,

Or upward curled and soared.

And all the night those sheets of white
Gleamed through the spectral mist,

When o'er the isle the broad moonlight
The wintry foam-flakes kissed.

Mirrored within my dreamy thought,
I see it, feel it all,

That island with sweet visions fraught,
That awful waterfall.

With sunflecked trees, and birds and flowers,
The Isle of Life is fair;

But one deep voice thrills through its hours,

One spectral form is there,

A power no mortal can resist,
Rolling forever on,

A floating cloud, a shadowy mist,
Eternal undertone.

And through the sunny vistas gleam
The fate, the solemn smile.

Life is Niagara's rushing stream ;

Its dreams

that peaceful isle!

Christopher Pearse Cranch.

Norman's Kill (Tawasentha), N. Y.

A

THE FALLS OF NORMAN'S KILL.

DAY in Indian Summer: here, the sky
Shows a bright veil of silver; there, a shade

Of soft and misty purple, with the fleece