Waiting, watching

Nor the red Mustang, Whose clusters hang

And the fiery flood Of whose purple blood Has a dash of Spanish bravado.

There grows no vine
By the haunted Rhine,
By Danube or Guadalquivir,
Nor an island or cape,
That bears such a grape
As grows by the Beautiful River.

Drugged is their juice
For foreign use,

When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantic,

To rack our brains
With the fever pains,

That have driven the Old World frantic.

To the sewers and sinks
With all such drinks,

And after them tumble the mixer ;
For a poison malign
Is such Borgia wine,

Or at best but a Devil's Elixir.

While pure as a spring
Is the wine I sing,

And to praise it, one needs but name it;

For Catawba wine

Has need of no sign,
No tavern-bush to proclaim it.

And this Song of the Vine, This greeting of mine, The winds and the birds shall deliver To the Queen of the West, In her garlands dressed,

On the banks of the Beautiful River.

SANTA FILOMENA.1

WHENE'ER a noble deed is wrought,
Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,

Our hearts, in glad surprise,
To higher levels rise.

"At Pisa the church of San Francisco contains a chapel dedicated lately to Santa Filomena; over the altar is a picture, by Sabatelli, representing the Saint as a beautiful, nymph-like figure, floating down from heaven, attended by two angels bearing the lily, palm, and javelin, and beneath, in the foreground, the sick and maimed, who are healed by her intercession."-MRS JAMESON, Sacred and Legendary Art, II. 298.

The tidal wave of deeper souls
Into our inmost being rolls,
And lifts us unawares
Out of all meaner cares.

Honor to those whose words or deeds Thus help us in our daily needs, And by their overflow

Raise us from what is low !

Thus thought I, as by night I read
Of the great army of the dead,

The trenches cold and damp,
The starved and frozen camp,-

The wounded from the battle-plain,
In dreary hospitals of pain,

The cheerless corridors,
The cold and stony floors.

Lo in that house of misery
A lady with a lamp I see

Pass through the glimmering
gloom,

And flit from room to room.

And slow, as in a dream of bliss,
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss
Her shadow, as it falls
Upon the darkening walls.

As if a door in heaven should be
Opened and then closed suddenly,

The vision came and went,
The light shone and was spent.

On England's annals, through the
long
Hereafter of her speech and song,
That light its rays shall cast
From portals of the past.

A Lady with a Lamp shall stand In the great history of the land, A noble type of good, Heroic womanhood.

Nor even shall be wanting here The palm, the lily, and the spear, The symbols that of yore Saint Filomena bore.