And brought to light an infinite So unconceived before? When gazing on those worlds which first He was allowed to scan, And littleness of man, When back to earth he turned again, Such brilliant visions past, Submitted to the stain, And lulling Ignorance entwined There gleamed no glow-worm's spark, No firefly's fluttering lamp. Fondly I sought to dream, But mine eyelids would not close; Grated the night-owl's scream, Roared the pine's crashing brows. No nightingale was singing, No lovely star was shining Through those midnight heavens of dread No bowery foliage twining Rich umbrage over my head; No sweet night-blowing flowers No golden-fruited bowers Stained by the noontide beam; No verdure fresh and fair Carpet for fairies' feet; Spring's glories reigned not there, Nor Summer's breathings sweet. Solemn the night, and dreary, A weight on eye and ear, The very heart felt weary And o'ertaken by dim fear. Haunted by things long lost, Pale, shadowy memories, The undistinguishable host Of aëry phantasies, I strove to see the land, I strove to see the sky; But Darkness waved his wand: Night was Immensity. "If he bring me pansies purple and gold And clasp them within my hand, "If he bring me blue forget-me-notsAs blue as the summer sky I shall know I will never falsehood see In the blue of his bonnie eye. "If he bring me poppies red as the coals That glow in the blacksmith's fire, I shall know like the coals his love will die In the ashes of his desire. "If he bring me soft carnation-pinks In a wreath as children wear, I shall know it is but fancy for me "If he bring me snowdrops waxen white That droop with their own weight low, I will know, alas! when the winter comes, I shall sleep beneath the snow." Nor snowdrops white, nor pinks, nor blossoms pale, Were given to the maiden fair; Nor poppies red, nor blue forget-me-nots, But laden down with roses came he then Moss-roses, maiden-blush and white, Burgundy roses crimson as the wine When crystal goblets flash the light; Roses like sea-shells with pink pearly tints, Roses with petals of rare yellow gold, Roses as scarlet as a woman's lips When rain warm kisses all untold. I shall know that rare treasures I will glean He flung them o'er her, laughing as they From many a distant land. "If he bring me orange-blossoms sweet, With their clinging buds beside, I shall know that before the year is out I will surely be his bride. fell: No laughter rippled back to him. "I hold an omen in these flowers," she said "An omen for the future dim. "Would you had brought me lilies in their | Departing, leaves no kindly gleam FLU LUTTERING lovers, giddy boys, Shun the eye with vacant glare: THE SECRET OF THE STRADIVARIUS. Y friend Luigi is reckoned one of the finest violin-players of the day. His wonderful skill has made him famous, and he is well known and honored for his talent in every capital in Europe. If in these pages I call him by a name other than the one he has made famous, it is solely on account of a promise he exacted from me, in case I should ever feel tempted to make the following strange experiences we shared together public property. I am afraid, nevertheless, that too many will readily identify the man himself with the portrait I am obliged to draw. ing moustache, a hand whose long and delicate fingers seemed constructed expressly for their particular mission—violin-playing,— picture all these characteristics, and if you enjoy the acquaintance of the musical world. or even if you have been in the habit of attending concerts where stars of the first magnitude condescend to shine, I fear, in spite of my promise of concealing his name, you will too easily recognize my friend. Luigi's manner in ordinary life was very quiet, gentlemanly and reposed. He was in his dreamy sort of way highly courteous and polite to strangers. Although when alone with me or other friends he loved he had plenty to say for himself and his broken English was pleasant to listen to-in general company he spoke but little; but let his left Luigi, leaving his professional greatness hand close round the neck of a fiddle, let out of the question, would have been a his right hand grasp the bow, and one knew noticeable man in any company-a man directly for what purpose Luigi came into the at whom people would look and ask not world. Then the man lived and revelled, as only, "Who is he?" but "What has he it were, in a life of his own making. The done in the world?" knowing that men of notes his craft drew forth were like bracing his stamp are seldom sent upon the scene air to him; he seemed actually to respire the to live an ordinary every-day life. In per- music, and his dreamy eyes awoke and shone son he was very tall, standing over six feet. with fire. He did that rare thing—rare inHis figure was graceful: some have called it deed, but lacking which no performer can slight; there was breadth of shoulder enough rise to enduring fame-threw his whole soul to tell it was the figure of a strong man. A into his playing. His manner, his very atface with a pale but clear complexion; dark titude, as he commenced, was a complete · deep-set eyes with a sort of far-away expres- study. Drawing himself up to every inch sion in them; black hair worn long, after the of his height, he placed the violin-nestling manner of geniuses of his kind; a high but it, I may say-under his chin, and then, takrugged forehead, a well-shaped nose, a droop-ing a long breath of what appeared to be |