THOUGH they whisper, he and May,
I can hear each word they say;
For I rest,
Clinging to the ball-room's queen,
'Mid the lace and silken sheen
At her breast.
"Give me but that rose of thine,
I will build for it a shrine
Near my heart."
From my bed she draws me out,
For a moment seems in doubt,
Then we part.
In his waistcoat crushed I lie,
'Mid cigars and purse I die;
E'er the day
Am forgotten, and, e'er night,
Trophy of a conquest light,
- Columbia Spectator.MINE is the song! Yon oriole sings,
But without me the bird were dumb.
I feel the joy; he knows it there,
And notes, without his willing, come.
The beauty which I know in life,
The beauty which I cannot tell,
My flowers say for me with a blush;
The birds could not tell that so well.
The love that broods about my life -
That is not mine to typify;
God trusts that not to earthly signs,
But gives us, daily, sea and sky.
- Vassar Miscellany.We dare not attempt, within our limited space, to boast of dealing justly by the three "literary" magazines, - the Cornell Review, the Nassau Lit., and the Yale Lit. We dare not award the palm of superiority to any one, when all are so excellent. But the whole system of such undergraduate "magazining" seems to us radically wrong, and therefore are we no impartial judge. The Review publishes more good poetry; the Yale Lit. excels in literary criticism, Notabilia, and Portfolio; the Nassau inclines both to philosophy and to legendary matter of a ghostly sort, induced, as the Acta would say, by the atmosphere. But one reads these productions with a sense of dissatisfaction. Articles on weighty subjects, when published in a college paper, are compelled, for very lack of room, to be insufficient and fragmentary.