Flip The men fell to work: soon the grave was filled in. perty flung herself down on the spot beneath which Philip lay buried. "Best leave him alone a bit, lads," the doctor said, in a voice that choked strangely. Then they lefu her. Later the long-legged igger retur d; with him was another man. Raising Flipperty in his arms, he held her out towards the stranger. "Her be yer pup, ain't her?" he asked. "I'm her stepfather." "Wall," said the long-legged digger, slowly, "her's sleeping now; maybe her'll wake soon enough," and he turned on his heel and left them. JOHN KEATS. JOHN KEATS, a celebrated English poet, born at London, Oct. 29, 1795; died at Rome, Feb. 23, 1821. John was sent to a school at Edmonton. At fifteen he was removed from school, and apprenticed to a surgeon. At the conclusion of his apprenticeship he went back to London to "walk the hospitals; " that is, to study surgery in a practical way. The profession was not suited to him, nor he for it. He had in the meantime resolved to make literature his vocation. His first volume of poems, published in 1817, contained the "Epistles," which appear in his collected "Works." A pulmonary disease set in, which was aggravated by private difficulties, and in 1820 he set out for Italy, to try the effects of a warmer climate. Before leaving England he put forth a volume of poems which contained the fragmentary poems "Hyperion," "Lamia," "The Eve of St. Agnes," "Isabella," and several of the best of his smaller poems. He lingered for a while in Naples, and in Rome, where he died. He was buried in the Protestant Cemetery in Rome. THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. ST. AGNES' EVE Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath, Like pious incense from a censer old, Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death, His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man; Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze, Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat❜ries, He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. Northward he turneth through a little door, And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue But no - already had his deathbell rung; Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft; Were glowing to receive a thousand guests: The carved angels, ever eager-ey'd, Star'd, where upon their heads the cornice rests, With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts. At length burst in the argent revelry, The brain, new stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay As she had heard old dames full many times declare. They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, As, supperless to bed they must retire, Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline: Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train And back retir'd; not cool'd by high disdain, So, purposing each moment to retire, She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors, Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores But for one moment in the tedious hours, Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss - in sooth such things have been. He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell: Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came, Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place; "Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand; "He had a fever late, and in the fit "He cursed thee and thine, both house and land: "Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit "More tame for his gray hairs Alas me! flit! "Flit like a ghost away." "Ah, Gossip dear, "We're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit, "And tell me how " "Good Saints! not here, not here; "Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier." He followed through a lowly arched way, Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, |