HARMOSAN.

Now the third and fatal conflict for the Persian throne was done,
And the Moslem's fiery valor had the crowning victory won.

Harmosan, the last and boldest the invader to defy,
Captive overborne by numbers, they were bringing forth to die.

Then exclaimed that noble captive: "Lo! I perish in my thirst;
Give me but one drink of water, and let then arrive the worst!'

In his hand he took the goblet, but awhile the draught forbore,
Seeming doubtfully the purpose of the foemen to explore.

Well might then have paused the bravest for around him angry foes With a hedge of naked weapons did that lonely man enclose.

"But what fear'st thou ?" cried the caliph; "is it, friend, a secret blow? Fear it not!- our gallant Moslem no such treacherous dealing know.

"Thou mayst quench thy thirst securely, for thou shalt not die before Thou hast drunk that cup of water- this reprieve is thine-no more!"

Quick the satrap dashed the goblet down to earth with ready hand,
And the liquid sank for ever, lost amid the burning sand.

"Thou hast said that mine my life is, till the water of that cup
I have drained; then bid thy servants that spilled water gather up!"

For a moment stood the caliph as by doubtful passions stirred-
Then exclaimed: "For ever sacred must remain a monarch's word.

"Bring another cup, and straightway to the noble Persian give: Drink, I said before, and perish—now I bid thee drink and live!”

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.

THE NAME IN THE BARK.

THE self of so long ago,

And the self I struggle to know,

I sometimes think we are two,- or are we shadows of one?
To-day the shadow I am

Returns in the sweet summer calm

To trace where the earlier shadow flitted awhile in the sun.

Once more in the dewy morn

I came through the whispering corn;

Cool to my fevered cheek soft breezy kisses were blown;
The ribboned and tasselled grass

Leaned over the flattering glass,

And the sunny waters trilled the same low musical tone.

To the gray old birch I came,

Where I whittled my school-boy name:

The nimble squirrel once more ran skippingly over the rail,
The blackbirds down among

The alders noisily sung,

And under the blackberry-brier whistled the serious quail.

I came, remembering well

How my little shadow fell,

As I painfully reached and wrote to leave to the future a sign:
There, stooping a little, I found

A half-healed, curious wound.

An ancient scar in the bark, but no initial of mine!

Then the wise old boughs overhead

Took counsel together, and said,

And the buzz of their leafy lips like a murmur of prophecy passed,"He is busily carving a name

In the tough old wrinkles of fame;

But, cut he as deep as he may, the lines will close over at last!"

Sadly I pondered awhile,

Then I lifted my soul with a smile,

And I said "Not cheerful men, but anxious children are we,
Still hurting ourselves with the knife,

As we toil at the letters of life,

Just marring a little the rind, never piercing the heart of the tree."

And now by the rivulet's brink

I leisurely saunter, and think

How idle this strife will appear when circling ages have run,

If then the real I am

Descend from the heavenly calm,

To trace where the shadow I seem once flitted awhile in the sun.