Through oak-woods green,
A silver sheen,
Sweet moon, from thee
Afforded me
A tranquil joy,
Me, _then_, a happy boy.
Still makes thy light
My window bright,
But can no more
Lost peace restore:
My brow is shaded,
My cheek with weeping faded.
Thy beams, O moon,
Will glitter soon,
As softly clear,
Upon my bier:
For soon, earth must
Conceal in youth my dust.

C.H.

* * * * *


CLEOPATRA'S NEEDLES.

(_For the Mirror._)