And wake from youth's fair vision, old and gray;
Yet even in youth the seeds of wasting grew,
Even oldest life hath instinct of the new!

The widowed Age, still mourning Truth's decline,
Starts in the flash of some new dawn divine,
Sings hallelujahs to that better day,

That throbbed unseen in midnights far away,
And tunes to celebrate the choral song
The birth of gods now buried centuries long!

From age to age some soul divinely great
Mounts o'er the level of our poor estate;
And mindless of the confluent tides that gave
Its grand preeminence to that crowning wave,
We mark its period, and re-date old time
By the accession of that force sublime;
Though not a pulse of all the untold past
But here ran tremulous to be seen at last!

We give the crown to moments when our sense
Grows conscious of the Eternal Immanence,
Half seeing what is, still blind to what has been,
Believing worlds just fashioned when first seen,
Though, through untraveled space a million years
May fail to bring the light of distant spheres.

Though sense demand, with step by step, to climb
The dateless periods of eternal time,

Our souls have hints of that unruffled stream
That joins all Eras in one Now supreme,
As sunken continents hold the rooted isles
In one firm mass, down ocean's dark defiles;
And in the dissonance of a thousand powers
On thrones discreet, in separate lands and hours,
Behold, in glimpses the unjarring One,-
Of time, space, power, the endless unison!
Then all our stormy epochs fade away
In the still light of God's eternal day!

THE SNAKE-BIT IRISHMAN.

A KENTUCKY DIALECT NARRATIVE AS TOLD BY SUT

LOVINGOOD.

Adapted from "Sut Lovingood's Yarns."

I wer prospecting one day 'long the road, permiscus like, when sum three or four clever fellers frum Knoxville fix'd tharselves up fur a camp hunt ove a cupple ove weeks out thar, an' they met up wif me, an' pinted out two kaigs tied across a muel's back, an' tole me tu smell at the bunghole. I follered em wifout ara halter.

We camp't jist tuther side of a high pint over the hills, an' wer gettin on fust rate, killin lots ove deer an' sich like, when wun nite ther cum a cussed Irishman, wif a bundil ontu the aind ove a stick, an' jis' tuck up boardin wif us, never so much es even lookin tu see ef he wer welcum. He et, an' drunk, and slep't thar, es cumfortabel es ef he own'd this country, an' wer the sassyest, meddlesumest, mos' imperdint sun ove a diggin-mersheen I ever seed.

Sez Jedge Alexander tu me: "Sut, ef yu'll manage to run that raskil off from yere, I'll gin ye a par ove boots." Sez I, jumpin tu my feet: "I'll du hit, durn'd ef I don't. Jes' wait till nite."

"Now," sez the kind-hearted Jedge, "Sut, yu mustn't hurt the poor feller, mine that; but I want him skared away frum this camp."

Sez I, "All the hurtin he'll git will cum frum skeer. I won't hurt him, but I specks the skeer may du hit; my 'sperience (an' hits sum on the nater an' workin ove skeers) is, Jedge, that the hurtin cumin outen a big ripe skeer jis' can't be beat on top ove this yeath, eny how. Hors-whips, yeller-jackets, an' fire, haint nowhar. Yu wants him skeer'd clean away frum this camp. Now s'pose I happens to put in a leetle too much powder, an' skeer him plum outen the United States-what then?”

Sed he, larfin, "I won't indite you; jis' go ahead, Sut."

I fix'd things.

Well, nite cum; an' arter we hed lay down, Irish stole hisself anuther suck onter the barlm-ove-life kaig, an' cum an' jis' rooted his way in atween me an' Jim, an' fix'd hisself fur a big sleep, went at hit imejuntly, an' sot up a systim ove the infunelest snorin you ever hearn; hit wer the dolefulest, skeeriest soun ever blown outen a human nose. The allfired ole poshole digger snored in Irish !

Now, I hed cut off ni onto about nine foot ove gut frum the offal ove a big buck what wer kill'd that day, an' I tied the ainds wif twine, to keep in the truck what wer intu hit, an' sunk hit in the crick, so es to hev hit good cold. I ris up rite keerful, put on the Jedge's spurs, got me a long black-thorn, an' greased hit wif hog's fat outen the skillet. I fotch the gut up from the crick, an' wer ready to begin the sponsibil work I hed on han.

The tater-eater hed a hole inter the sittin-down part of his britches, an' his shut-tail hed cum outen hit to git sum fresh air. I tied wun aind ove that orful gut tite an' fas' tu the ole coarse shut-tail, an' quiled up the gut nice an' snake-like, clost tu him es he lay. I lay'd down agin, an' reached down my han wif the black-thorn in hit till I got in stickin distunce; I felt fur a soft place, an' jis' socked him wif the thorn four or five times, 'bout es fas' es a ho'net ken sting when he hesn't much time tu spar, an' a big job ove stingin tu du sumwhar else.

Every time I socked that thorn, I raked him up an' down the shins wif them Mexican spurs. I hearn them rattlelin ontu his shin-bones like buckshot in a bottil, an' I wer a-hollorin-yu cud hearn me a mile-"Snake! Snake! big snake! Oh, lordee a big copper-headed black rattil snake is crawlin up my britches, up bof laigs, an' is a-tying hissef intu a double bow-knot roun my body. Help! Lordee, oh !"

The rest on 'em hed the hint, an' all wer 'shouten "Snake! snake! big snake !" es I did. Now hits not

onreasonabel tu tell that this hurtin an' noise woke Paddy eshenshully all over, an' all et onst tu.

He slapped down his hans each side ove hissef to help 'im to rise, an' laid one ove 'em flat ontu the nice cold quile ove gut. He went ofen that pallet an' outen that camp jis' like a sparrer-hawk starts tu fly frum the soun ove a shot-gun, an' he lit twenty foot out in the dark, a-straitnin out that gut until the string on the hinmos' aind snapped like ontu a 'cussion cap. As he went, his words wer-"Howly blessed mother!" an' he sot inter runnin in a serkil ove about fifty yards thru the brush, roun an' aroun the camp, a-makin meny surjestshuns, an' prayers, an' other dierbolical souns. "Shute the long divil! Shute all ove yees, but don't aim at his head! Och, Shint Patherick! Oh, howly mother! Can't nun ove yees ketch him? Stop him! Och, howly wather! how swate he's a-bitin! I tell yees he's got me behind, an' he's a-mending his hoult! Praist, praist, pope, praist! Howly wather! praist! Och! och! Fitch me a cross-a big cross! Bring me bades, me bades! The divil's own son is a-aiting in strait fur me kednays!"

In wun ove his sarkits, he run thru the embers ove the camp-fire, an' the string at the aind ove the gut hed kotch, an' wer a-burnin like a slow-match. Paddy hed ventered to peep over his shoulder, an' seed hit a-bobbin about arter him; he got a bran new idear onder his har. "Och! Howly Moses! he'll ait now as he plazes, he's a-totin a lite tu see how to bite by."

The very thought ove hit made him ni ontu dubbil his speed. He tore thru that brush thicket like a bull wif honey-bees arter him, an' made more nise than a hoss a-doing the same work at the same speed, an' onder a like skeer. I wer up ontu a stump a-hollerin, Snake! snake! snake!' es regular es a steamboat snorts, an' in a orful voice, like I hed a jews-harp in my froat.

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Arter he'd run ni ontu a mile in that surkil, an' hed

broke a good sweat, an' when his back wer to'ards the camp, I bellered out, "Fling away yer spade; hit makes agin yu!"

I wish I may be dodrabbited ef he didn't go thru the moshuns ove flingin a spade back'ards over his head. He thought he hed his spade, sure es yu ar born'd. See what a skeer kin due in mixin up the idears ove a critter what sorter leans to'ards bein a half fool, enyhow. Then I hollered, "Go in a strait line an' out-run yer snake, yu infunnelly durn'd fool!"

That idear happened to go strait to his brains afore hit tangled, an' Pat tuck me at my word, an' wer outen site in the shake ove a lamb's tail. In about half minit, way over ontu the nex ridge, I hearn "Howly Mose-," an' it wer so far off I cudent hear the aind ove the word.

Nex day he wer makin a bee line thru town, to'ards the East, in a stiff, short dorg-trot, an' lookin like he'd bin thru a smut-mersheen. A feller hail'd him, "Hollo, Pat, which way?"

He look'd slowly roun wifout stoppin, wif a hang-dorg sorter face, an' a feelin a-hine him wif one han', he growl'd out a word fur every step he tuck-"Strate tu swate Ireland, whar thar's no snakes!"

An' I b'leve he kep his word. He's in. Irishdum now ef he kep his oath, whar thar's no snakes, an' yet I'll swar he dreams ove em, an' prays agin 'em ove nites, an's watchin fur 'em, an' a-cussin ove 'em ove days, an' will keep up that habit till death sends a supener fur him, even ef the ole feller waits seventy-five years fust.

I got two par ove boots, an' ole tangle-foot whisky enuf tu fill 'em.

A HANDFUL OF GRASS.
A letter from home, and lo! within
Is what I rejoice to see,
Though many a one will only think
How silly it is of me.

ANON.