19. On the whole, Yosemite is incomparably the most wonderful feature of our continent; and, unless the unexplored Himalayas hide some rival, there is no spot, the wide world over, of such varied beauty and measureless grandeur. A. D. Richardson (abridged).

THE

The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,

It runneth the earth's wide regions round;
It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies,
Or, like a cradled creature, lies.

2. I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea!

I am where I would ever be ;

With the blue above, and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe'er I go;

If a storm should come and awake the deep,
What matter? I shall ride and sleep.

3. I love, oh, how I love to ride

On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,
When every mad wave drowns the moon,
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the sou'-west blasts do blow!

4. I never was on the dull, tame shore,

But I loved the great sea more and more,
And backward flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest;
And a mother she was, and is, to me;
For I was born on the open sea.

5. The waves were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born;
And the whale, it whistled, the porpoise rolled,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;
And never was heard such an outcry wild
As welcomed to life the ocean-child!

6. I've lived, since then, in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers, a sailor's life,

With wealth to spend, and power to range,
But never have sought nor sighed for change;
And Death, whenever he comes to me,

Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea!

BARRY CORNWALL.

XLIX. THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

A WIDE plain, where the broadening Floss hurries

on between its green banks to the sea, and the loving tide, rushing to meet it, checks its passage with an impetuous embrace.On this mighty tide, the black ships, laden with the freshly-scented fir-planks, with rounded sacks of oil-bearing seed, or with the dark glitter of coal, are borne along to St. Ogg's. This town shows its aged, fluted red roofs and the broad gables of its wharves, between the low-wooded hill and the riverbrink, tinging the water with a soft purple hue under the transient glance of this February sun.

2. Far away, on each hand, stretch the rich pastures, and the patches of dark earth made ready for the seed of broad-leaved green crops, or touched, already, with the tint of the tender-bladed autumn-sown corn. The distant ships seem to be lifting their masts and stretching their red-brown sails close among the branches of the spreading ash. Just by the red-roofed town, the tributary Ripple flows, with a lively current, into the Floss.

3. How lovely the little river is, with its dark, changing wavelets! It seems to me like a living companion, while I wander along the bank, and listen to its low, placid voice, as to the voice of one who is deaf and loving. I remember those large dipping willows. I remember the stone bridge; and this is Dorlcote Mill. I must stand a minute or two here on the bridge and look at it, though the clouds are threatening, and it is far on in the afternoon. Even in this leafless time of departing February, it is pleasant to look at it, —perhaps the chill, damp season adds a charm to the trimly-kept, comfortable dwelling-house, as old as the elms and chestnuts that shelter it from the northern blast.

4. The stream is brimful, now, and lies high in this little withy plantation, and half drowns the grassy fringe of the croft in front of the house. As I look at the full stream, the vivid grass, the delicate bright-green powder softening the outline of the great trunks and branches that gleam from under the bare purple boughs, I am in love with moistness, and envy the white ducks that are dipping their heads far into the water, here among the withes, unmindful of the awkward appearance they make in the drier world above.

5. The rush of the water and the booming of the mill bring a dreamy deafness, which seems to heighten the peacefulness of the scene. They are like a great curtain of sound, shutting one out from the world beyond. Now, there is the thunder of the huge covered wagon, coming home with sacks of grain. That honest wagoner is

thinking of his dinner's getting sadly dry in the oven at this late hour; but he will not touch it, till he has fed his horses, the strong, submissive, meek-eyed horses.

6. See how they stretch their shoulders up the slope toward the bridge, with all the more energy, because they are so near home. Look at their grand, shaggy feet, that seem to grasp the firm earth, — at the patient strength of their necks, bowed under the heavy collar, at the mighty muscles of their struggling haunches! I should like, well, to hear them neigh over their hardly-earned feed of corn, and see them, with their moist necks, freed from the harness, dipping their eager nostrils into the muddy pond. Now, they are on the bridge, and down they go again at a swifter pace, and the arch of the covered wagon disappears at the turning behind the trees.

7. Now, I can turn my eyes toward the mill again, and watch the unresting wheel, sending out its diamond jets of water. That little girl is watching it, too. She has been standing on just the same spot, at the edge of the

water, ever since I paused on the bridge; and that queer white cur with the brown ear seems to be leaping and barking in ineffectual remonstrance with the wheel; perhaps he is jealous, because his playfellow in the beaver bonnet is so rapt in its movement.

8. It is time the little playfellow went in, I think; and there is a very bright fire to tempt her, the red light shines out under the deepening gray of the sky. It is time, too, for me to leave off resting my arms on the cold stone of this bridge. . . Oh! my arms are really benumbed. I have been pressing my elbows on the arms of my chair, and dreaming that I was standing on the bridge in front of Dorlcote Mill, and seeing it as it looked one February afternoon many years ago.

George Eliot.

L.

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.

OY the flow of the inland river,

BY

Whence the fleets of iron1 have fled,
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,
Asleep are the ranks of the dead;

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day; ·

Under the one, the Blue; 2
Under the other, the Gray.

2. These, in the robings of glory,
Those, in the gloom of defeat,-
All, with the battle-blood gory,

In the dusk of eternity meet;

1 The monitors used in the recent Civil War, were steam vessels, covered with heavy plates of iron, whose decks appeared but little above the surface of the

water.

2 The blue was the color worn by the Union troops.

3 The gray was the color worn by the Confederate troops.