SONNET.
Wouldst thou be happy, friend, forget, forget.
A curse—no blessing—Memory, thou art;
The very torment of a human heart.
Ah! yes, I thought, I still am young; and let
My heart but beat, I can be happy yet.
Upon a friendly face clear shone the light;
Without, low moaned the mountain's winds, and night
Closed our warm home—sad words of fond regret.
A voice which in my ear no more shall ring;
A look estranged in hate like lightning came,
My very soul within me died as flame
By strong wind spent. It was not grief, for dead
Was grief; nor love, for love in wrath had fled;
It was of both the last undying sting!
Julia Kavanagh.
THE BRETONS AT HOME.
By Charles W. Wood, F.R.G.S., Author of "Through Holland," "Letters from Majorca," etc. etc.
The long grey walls, the fortifications, the church towers and steeples, the clustering roofs of St. Malo came into view.
It is a charming sight after the long and often unpleasant night journey which separates St. Malo from Southampton. The boats leave much to be desired, and the sea very often, like Shakespeare's heroine, needs taming, but, unlike that heroine, will not be tamed, charm we never so wisely. As a rule, however, one is not in a mood to charm.