of the South towards him, he saw the one triumph which sweetened his life, the one requisite which had been needed to complete his happiness. In securing the good opinion of his native South, he would attain the goal of his highest ambition, he would conquer the haughty enemy who during all the years of his public career had been able to fix upon him the badge of social inferiority.

Paul Hamilton Hayne.

BORN in Charleston, S. C., 1830. DIED at Copse Hill, Forest Station, Ga., 1886.

Then turned with silvery laughter

To the sports which children love,
Thrice-mailed in the sweet, instinctive thought
That the good God watched above.

Yet the hailing bolts fell faster,
From scores of flame-clad ships,
And about us, denser, darker,

Grew the conflict's wild eclipse,
Till a solid cloud closed o'er us,
Like a type of doom and ire,

Whence shot a thousand quivering tongues
Of forked and vengeful fire.

But the unseen hands of angels

Those death-shafts warned aside,
And the dove of heavenly mercy
Ruled o'er the battle tide;

In the houses ceased the wailing,

And through the war-scarred marts

The people strode, with the step of hope,
To the music in their hearts.

A DREAM OF THE SOUTH WINDS.

FRESH, how fresh and fair

Through the crystal gulfs of air,

The fairy South Wind floateth on her subtle wings of balm!

And the green earth lapped in bliss,

To the magic of her kiss

Seems yearning upward fondly through the golden-crested calm!

From the distant Tropic strand,

Where the billows, bright and bland,

mm

Go creeping, curling round the palms with sweet, faint undertune, From its fields of purpling flowers

Still wet with fragrant showers,

The happy South Wind lingering sweeps the royal blooms of June.

All heavenly fancies rise

On the perfume of her sighs,

Which steep the inmost spirit in a language rare and fine,
And a peace more pure than sleep's

Unto dim, half-conscious deeps,

Transports me, lulled and dreaming, on its twilight tides divine.

Those dreams! ah me! the splendor,

So mystical and tender,

Wherewith like soft-heat lightnings they gird their meaning round,

And those waters, calling, calling,
With a nameless charm enthralling,

Like the ghost of music melting on a rainbow spray of sound!

Touch, touch me not, nor wake me,
Lest grosser thoughts o'ertake me,

From earth receding faintly with her dreary din and jars,—
What viewless arms caress me?

What whispered voices bless me,

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With welcomes dropping dewlike from the weird and wondrous stars ?

Alas! dim, dim, and dimmer

Grows the preternatural glimmer

Of that trance the South Wind brought me on her subtle wings of balm; For behold! its spirit flieth,

And its fairy murmur dieth,

And the silence closing round me is a dull and soulless calm!

I

LOVE'S AUTUMN.

WOULD not lose a single silvery ray

Of those white locks which like a milky way
Streak the dusk midnight of thy raven hair;

I would not lose, O Sweet! the misty shine

Of those half-saddened, thoughtful eyes of thine,

Whence Love looks forth, touched by the shadow of care;

I would not miss the droop of thy dear mouth,

The lips less dewy-red than when the South,

The young South wind of passion, sighed o'er them;

I would not miss each delicate flower that blows

On thy wan cheeks, soft as September's rose
Blushing but faintly on its faltering stem;

I would not miss the air of chastened grace
Which, breathed divinely from thy patient face,
Tells of love's watchful anguish, merged in rest;

Naught would I miss of all thou hast, or art,
O friend supreme! whose constant, stainless heart
Doth house, unknowing, many an angel guest.

Their presence keeps thy spiritual chambers pure;
While the flesh fails, strong love grows more and more
Divinely beautiful with perished years.

Thus, at each slow, but surely deepening sign

Of life's decay, we will not, Sweet! repine,

Nor greet its mellowing close with thankless tears.