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[For The Sunny South.] LOVE A.\D AI THIV. BY E. S. W. Love, the summer now is fading— Long ago the harvest passed: Soon the wing of brooding autumn On the earth its gloom will cast. Soon the leaves now green above us Will be changed to sombre hue, And the flowers now blooming near us In the earth will hide from view. Will your love fade with the flowers? Or will autumn find you true? Can love only live in summer, Nourished by the sun and dew? Think of all you fondly promised When the sky was bright above— When my cheek and eyes were glowing With the light of youth and love. When my life grows pale and sombre With the shades of time and care, Will your love fade like my roses You are wont to call so fair ? [Written for The Sunny South.] EDITHA; —oe,— The Woman Fiend. BY AW OI.D CONTRIBUTOR. CHAPTER XL In the meantime, how had Paulo succeeded in his mission? He had been unable to find the friend of Theodoric, the Englishman, Percy Teynham, disguised as the peasant. The clue was too vague. Besides, Percy Teynham had other aliases, and strolled through city and country now with a violin and a tattered cloak, as an itinerant musician and mendicant. He was perfecting his plans; he was visiting the suburbs and surrounding country; he was send ing his secret messengers into the neighboring provinces. The leaders of the revolt had their place of rendezvous in the under-ground hall or cellar of a ruined palace. Great caution was used ; nevertheless, suspicion was excited. Nothing definite was known, or even suspected; but the spies of the Duchess had their eyes upon Percy, and had received orders to assas sinate him secretly whenever it could he safely done. One night, as he was coming from a meeting at the ruined palace, his steps were dogged by two men with stilettoes concealed beneath their filthy cloaks. They slipped past him in the darkness, and waylaid him at the entrance of an obscure alley. Swiftly springing out upon him as they were passing, one caught him by the throat to stifle his cries, while the other attempted to stab him in the breast. But Percy Teynham was active as well as strong. He jerked his throat from the clutch of the villain for an instant, and gave the alarm in a ringing cry for help. Then he grappled with his assailants, and struggled desperately for life. But the odds were against him, and he was on the point of being overpowered when help came to him in the shape of an agile youth, who sprung eagerly into the midst of the encounter, with a drawn dagger in his hand, and dealt rapid and dexter ous thrusts at the two assassins, wounding one of them in the neck and another in the shoul der. Seeing they were about to get the worst of the affray, the villains ran off, leaving Percy and his gallant young deliverer together. “Are you hurt?” asked Paulo, for it was he who had come to the assistance of the English man. “Nothing to speak of—a slight flesh-wound in the arm. But they would have murdered me, without doubt, but for your brave assistance. Thanks, gallant youth; I owe my life to those timely strokes of your good blade. Is there any way I can serve you, to show my gratitude ?” “You owe me no gratitude for an act of com mon humanity, and as far as a service, there is but one thing I desire, and that I have despaired of finding. It is not probable you could help me in this, and yet your tongue is English, and he I seek is an Englishman. ” “What is his name?” asked the pretended musical mendicant. “Percy Teynham.” The other gave a start, but prudence warned him to be cautious. “What would you with Percy Teynham ?” he asked. “I have a message for him from his friend Theodoric, the artist, at Tivoli. He is in prison; he has been tortured on the rack; he is starving to death.” “ Merciful Father ! Adrielo in prison, tortured, starving ! I must go to him at once—this very night.” “Are you Percy Teynham?” “I am. I thank you for this message more for than saving my life, brave boy. Now, help me to carry assistance to my friend. I must have a. few of my most trusty adherents, and we must leave the city one by one at different points, to avoid suspicion. I must go at once and sum mon them. We were to have opened the ball here in two days, with the cry of ‘Justice and Adrielo.’ We will open it in Tivoli, and gather strength from the in-flocking people as we march upon the palace of the Archduke.” “I do not understand you,” exclaimed Paulo. “Come in; I will explain to you as we go. No time must be lost.” By day-break next morning a small party of well-armed and well-mounted men met together, as agreed upon, in a secret spot outside the city walls, and proceeded rapidly to Tivoli. At the head rode the tall, lithe, soldierly figure of Lord Percy Teynham, and at his side the slender, graceful form of the youthful Paulo. When they were scarcely ten miles from the city, they were met by a horseman whose steed was covered with foam, and who. though richly dressed, rode bare-headed, and in a wild, dis ordered manner. Paulo recognized him as Count Civitelli. and called to him to halt and tell him of Theodoric and Amalia. In rapid, excited utterances the Count told his story, relating the Duke’s marriage with Editha, and the almost dying condition of The odoric. “Editha Beaumont in Tivoli ? Adrielo in the power of that woman fiend. Haste, haste, my friends, to the rescue ! Mercy and pity are un known to Editha Beaumont. Revenge and am bition will both prompt her to feed her fiendish cruelty on the life-blood of Adrielo, the lawful Archduke of Sforza. CHAPTER XII. Anselm was an expert at deception, and pos sessed unlimited assurance. He told his story so well, that the Duke did not once suspect it to be false. He said that when he entered the art ist's cell he had found the Count bleeding from many wounds and breathing his last. He had taken the body away, and thrown it into the river. The Duke commended him for so doing, and, des titute of shame, immediately dispatched a guard of honor to the castle for the Countess. She, even more shameless and dishonorable than him self, immediately responded to his invitation. The Duke received her most cordially, called for the vile minister who disgraced the garb he wore by his unholy life, and regardless of the blood of the husband that, so far as they were concerned, did really lie between them, they were united in an unholy mockery of marri age. The Duke placed the heavy coronet of the Duchess, his late pure and lovely wife, npon the brow of the remorseless and guilty woman. For a few short hours she exulted in the possession of the bauble that sue had risked so much to gain, and then, to her astonishment, she found its weight bearing uncomfortably on her brow. She had thought she could bear any weight upon her head, if it were only in the form of a crown ! As night came on she grew tired of the sickening folly and disgusting adulation of the Duke, and already longed for some other amuse ment. “I bear this crown upon my head,” she said to the Duke, “but I have exercised no power yet. Do you know that I am ambitious, my lord? I love power, oh ! so dearly !” “Ah ! I suspected that, my goddess of beauty,” said the Duke; “and be sure no wish of yours shall remain ungratifled. You wish to exercise the power that pertains to that crown ? You shall do so this very night. But while I think of it, let me tell you that the coronet on your head possesses a power you little dream of. Let me have it a moment. See here. Suppose you let some one examine it—a mortal enemy, we will I say, or one who stands in your way; you point out beauties to him; you turn it in his hands until you have it thus (move your hand, my angel); you touch this spring. Ah! you .start. If you had kept your hand where you had it, this tiny blade, tipped with poison, would have sprung into your arm as quick as thought! By this time you would have been dead ! Are you afraid of it now, my beautiful Duchess?” No, she was not; but he would have been could he have known the wicked satisfaction that glowed within her heart as she recognized in this an easy way to rid herself of this encumbrance to her crown whenever he became tiresome. She calmly settled the coronet on her head again; she could not bear to part with this em blem of power—nay,- this power, as it was now proven to be. “You have promised that I shall exercise my power to-night; in what way?” she asked. “To its utmost extent!” he replied. “You | shall decide the fate of a prisoner now in his I cell; you shall say whether he shall live or not. ! He will tell me nothing of himself; there is a mystery surrounding him which I cannot pene- ; trate.” “Let me see him,” said Editha. “What is his name ?” “He is called Theodoric, the artist,” replied the Duke; then, turning to a young page who at that moment entered the room, he ordered him to call Anselm. “Lead the way to the cell of Theodoric; mad- ame the Duchess wishes to see him,” said the Duke, when Anselm had come. ‘ ‘ I fear me this visit bodes no good to the young man,” thought Anselm as he led the way silently, after having first procured a light. “Why, this is a terrible place,” said Editha, gathering her silken robes around her with her ; heavily-jeweled fingers. “True, we don’t pick out the pleasantest apart ments for our prisoners,” laughed the Duke. Anselm threw open the door, and the Duke entered the cell, while Editha lingered near the door. “Well, sir artist, are you alive yet?” asked the Duke, rudely. There was no answer from Theodoric, who lay upon the miserable bed of leaves at the far end of the dungeon. “Sulky, eh? Give him a kick, Anselm, and rouse him up,” said the Duke, harshly. “Perhaps he’s dead, my lord,” said Anselm, timidly. “No !” said a low, sepulchral voice; “I am not dead; but even if I were, my name still lives, and you shall not go unpunished !’* Editha started as the voice reached her ear,— changed, but still recognizable. She leaned for ward ; the light fell upon the prisoner’s face, re vealing the pale, wasted features of her once ad mirer, Adrielo, the young friend of Percy Teyn ham, and (more than all) heir to a dukedom, as she knew him to be. She opened the door and called the Duke. “I have found out who he is, my lord.” she whispered. “If he escapes your hands, your life is not worth an hour's purchase ! He must die ! He is a most dangerous person !” “ Who, then, is he?” asked the Duke, some what alarmed. “I will tell you that afterward. But he must die!” “As you say. my lovely wife,” answered the Duke carelessly. “Shall I tell Anselm to kill him ?” “No; have you a torture-chamber?” “Ask Theodoric; he can tell you!” laughed the Duke. “ Have him taken there, then !’’ “Anselm,” ordered the Duke. “have this fel low taken to the torture-chamber!” “He has a wife?” asked Editha. “ Yes.” “Where is she?” “ Here—in the palace.” “Have her also taken to the torture-chamber !” said Editha. firmly. “My love, it is nearly midnight,” objected the Dnke; “ had you not better retire ?” “No: I am not tired!” answered Editha im patiently. “What do you want with his wife?”asked the Duke. “You promised that I should have my will this night, ” replied Editha. “Yes—over him.” “But not over her,’’interrupted Editha. “Then listen to me ! This young artist is Adrielo, the true Archduke Sforza—his wife is the Archduch ess ! Let either of them escape, and what is your life worth ?” “ Are-you certain of this ?” gasped the Duke. “ I am sure of it! I knew him in England. I have seen all his papers, jewels, signet-ring— PVPTvfliinnr * W'lion i’nn lnff mo olono urifVi liim everything! When you left me alone with him just now, I recognized him. He tried to bribe me to assist him to escape. He uttered threats of vengeance against you, not knowing that you were my dearly-loved lord. Shall he live ?— shall she?” “No !” said the Duke, in an agony of terror. “If they live, we are lost! Anselm, see that Amalia is also borne to the torture-chamber! Let there be three attendants beside yourself. Hasten!” CHAPTER XIII. Editha retired to her chamber, attired herself magnificently, clasped wide golden bands on her fair arms, twisted strings of pearls around her neck, and then, leaning on the Duke’s arm, descended all those many steps, trod all the long, damp passages, and stood at last in the gloomy chamber of pain and death. Theodoric was already there, waiting for the terrible death he expected to he dealt out to him. “Hasten!” said he, as she entered. “Oh, my lord !” exclaimed Editha, mockingly, “ do you suppose that we intend to stretch yovr limbs upon the rack? Oh! no; we only want you to witness the struggles of another. Ah ! here she is!” At this instant, the door was opened and the half-fainting Amalia led in. Her eyes fell upon Theodoric as he was held upon a seat by two guards. Not that they were guarding him—oh ! no—but he would have fallen had they not held him up. The attendants of Amalia held her but lightly, and with a sudden spring she reached her husband’s side. She clasped him in her arms; fora moment her tears and kisses were , showered upon his pallid brow, then they were 1 rudely separated. “ Enough !” said Editha. sternly. “ Put some irons in the fire. Did you bring the brazier as I ordered ?” “Yes, my lady, it is here,” answered one of the men, going to the door and bringing in a small furnace oLrad-hot coals. “Put some irons in it! I will blast that fair beauty of hers that has won the artist’s eye, and then put her on the rack ! How do you like that, sir artist?” asked Editha, with a sneer. Not her ! not her !” moaned Theodoric. “Do cheeks were hollow, his eyes bright with a con suming fever. He gazed wildly upon Percy a moment, then, staggering blindly forward, fell upon the bosom of his true friend, but both sup ported by their one-time enemy, the Count of Civitelli. “Percy, I am starving!” murmured Adrielo, looking with his old child-like faith into his friend’s eyes. While lie said this, Editha rose to her feet and stood like a lioness at bay. Her eyes fell upon Paulc. She guessed rightly who he was, and ad vanced toward him. He had defeated her tri umph—on him her vengeance should yet fall! She took the coronet from her head and* held it out to him. “ Here,” said she; “I hoped to wear this. I have played a desperate game and lost. I ac knowledge my defeat. I cannot be a Duchess, as my husband, yonder Count, is alive. This coronet was your mother’s; take it.” “No!” said Paulo; “it lias been polluted by your touch!” He dashed it back with his hand. It fell vio lently on her bosom, and she screamed aloud. The Duke hastened to her side, and she fell in his arms—dead ! Paulo had unintentionally struck the spring with his hand, and as the crown fell upon her, the poisoned dagger was plunged into her bosom ! The coronet she had sinned so fear- full}' to gain had been the instrument of her immediate destruction. The Duke stood appalled, his face ashy pale, his eyes distended with horror. “It is the vengeance of God!” cried Percy. | “This woman was a criminal of the deepest dye. She waded through blood to reach the eminence i she occupied. She was preparing to commit crimes of even deeper horror,—the murder of an innocent and high-born lady—the death by torture of the Archduke and Duchess of Sforza. ” “Archduke of Sforza !” uttered the Duke, in a trembling voice. “Even so. The poor artist, Theodoric—the ! victim of your blood-thirsty cruelty—is Adrielo, son of the exiled Archduke, heir to the crown of Sforza. The hour has come for him to assume liis rights. The people wait impatiently for their rightful ruler.” At this instant, a messenger, gaily attired in livery of gold and purple, was ushered into the room by two of the Duke’s attendants. He ap- | proached Percy, deceived hv his proud bearing and conspicuous attitude into supposing him to be the Duke, and tendered an elegant missive bearing the royal seal. ‘ • What is this ?” demanded Percy. “ The Archduke presents his love to your Highness, and sends a request that you be pres ent at his nuptials with the Lady Lolita, daugh ter of the Count of Pavia.” “ When is the marriage to take place?” asked Percy. “To-morrow at five o’clock, privately, in the I palace of his Highness.” “We will not fail to be there. You shall re main here until we go, my man,” said Percy. “But my master, the Archduke ” “Silence! There is your master, the Arch duke !” exclaimed Percy, pointing to Adrielo. ! “Your former master will have unlooked-for guests at his ivedding. ” CHAPTER XIV. In the royal palace at Sforza, the nuptials of j Garcia, Archduke of Sforza, and the Lady Lolita were about to be celebrated in comparative pri vacy, none being present but the officiating priest and members of the two noble families about to be allied, and a few intimate friends. ! The bride had delayed her coming until the last moment, then she entered, trembling, supported by her father’s arm and concealing her pale face and tearful eyes behind the folds of her flowing i vail. She gazed eagerly around the room, then j her eyes sank to the floor with an expression of I despair. The ceremony was about to begin, when loud around the palace. ( shouts were heard around the palace. All “You hear !” said the Duke, in a low voice to j with me as you will, Editha (he was speaking : paused to listen and distinctly caught the cry: in English now), but oh ! have mercy upon that poor girl! I will give you the ducal crown that you covet, and with my wife return to England ! Release her, and let us go hence; I swear you shall never hear of us again ! Nay, more will I do: take my life, but let her go, and the crown shall be yours !” “ What is he saying?” asked the Duke. “Threatening us,” said Editha; “sayingwhat he will do when he is free.” “It is false, my lord Duke !” cried Theodoric, faintly. “I was offering my coronet for yonder maiden’s life. You do not know who I am, my Editha. “He utters a mysterious threat that seems like madness, yet he is not mad !” “My lord,” answered Editha in the same tone; “if you leave me alone with the prisoner for a little while, I may be able to induce him to con fide in me.” “But he may injure you, my angel!” objected the Duke. “You see that it is impossible,” answered Editha. “ He is almost at death’s door. Leave us, my lord. I think I can fathom this mys tery. ” “Your will is my pleasure,” answered the Dnke, kissing her hand; then he went out, called Anselm, and closed the door. Adrielo and Edi tha were alone. She placed the light so that the prisoner could see her face, and bent over him. “Adrielo,” she murmured, “is it indeed you that I find here ?” “Who calls my name?” exclaimed the artist, opening his eyes. “Ah ! it is Editha Teynham ! Go away; I do not wish to see you.” “But I have come to save you, Adrielo ! From the first moment that I heard ’twas yon whom the Duke held in durance I have planned for this! I can save you, and restore you to your friends, who are lamenting your loss.” “ My life is scarcely worth saving, so nearly is it spent,” answered Theodoric; “yet for the sake of those who love me and would be glad to look upon my face once more, I will accept my life, even from your hands.” “ Those last words are most unkind, Adrielo,” said Editha, hypocritically, give the past ?” “I have nothing to do with the past. The fu ture—the eternity stares me in the face.” “Not so, my Adrielo; I will save you !” cried Editha. ‘ ‘ But, Adrielo, I risk my life in so doing; you must protect me after you have escaped! Adrielo, you must make me your wife; you must place me by your side, if I save you.” “Madame, you are already the wife of the Count of Civitelli !” answered Theodoric. “Ah! you have heard that; then you must know that I am a widow, for he fell by your hand! Adrielo, consent, I cam and will save you!” “ Madame,” answered Adrielo, faintly, “ I see the ducal coronet of Tivoli resting on your brow; has not the Countess already become a Duchess?” “ Ah ! you know that also ? Then I will no lon ger strive to wear a mask. Adrielo, you know me for a desperate, ambitious, heartless woman. I can save your life; one word of mine will doom you to instant death, or to lingering torture. I offer you your life and your crown; in return, I ask you for a share of that coronet that has never yet pressed your brows ! What say you ?” “Alas ! I am dying,” murmured the poor art ist; “I am dying of starvation, Editha. Do not seek to tempt a man in his last extremity.” “I but speak the truth,” answered Editha. lord “Silence !” thundered the Duke, for he feared the men might not obey him if they knew the rank of their prisoner. “Seize that girl!” commanded Editha; but the order was useless. With a scream of terror, a wild cry as if reason had deserted her throne, Amalia sank back insensible. “So much the better,” said Editha, grimly; “your task will be all the easier. Are those irons hot?” “Yes, my lady,” answered the man who held them, trembling, yet fearing to disobey. ‘ ‘ You two hold that fellow !” Theodoric was struggling with his weakness, trying to rise from his chair. Every order that she gave was obeyed with the silence of extreme fear. The Duke looked on. “Now, fortlie last time, Adrielo,” said Editha, turning to him and speaking in English, “listen to me. That woman has got to die, but I will “ Can you not for- j.spare your life if you will consent to my terms.” “Never! never!” cried Theodoric, with a force they had not thought him capable of. “Never, vile wretch ! fiend! murderess!” He had spoken in Italian, and they all under stood him. “You fellow called Anselm,” cried Editha, hoarsely, “take those irons and thrust them into the eyes of that girl! What! you hesitate ! By heaven! you shall have them in your own eyes if you don’t move quickly!” Anselm took the irons, and with trembling steps approached the girl’s side. “Touch her not!” cried Theodoric, his agony and despair lending him momentary strength. “Touch her not, or you shall surely die !” He sprang from his seat and stood alone. “Anselm, all of ye, ye know not what ye do ! I am Adrielo, the Archduke Sforza—that lady is my wife !” The iron fell from the hand of Anselm. The Duke began to look frightened. At the moment the iron fell from Anselm’s hand, the outer gate of the palace swung open to the signet-ring on Percy’s finger. Paulo 1 sprang up the steps to the western turret-cham ber. It was empty. He rushed down again, crying aloud: “He is not there! Oh! let us hasten to the torture-chamber ere we be too late!” Percy quickly followed Paulo’s flying foot thinking he was about to yield. “ Consent, and 1 steps. The Doctor and other gentlemen fol- you shall be free ! Refuse, and you shall die ! I do not ask for your love, only for a lawful right to the crown of Sforza ! Will you give it ?” “Never!” answered Theodoric. “I cannot even if I would. I have already given that right to another, whom I love dearer than life.” “What?” screamed the baffled woman. The Duke opened the door, hut she motioned him hack again. “What did you say, Adrielo?” she repeated. “I am already married,” murmured Theodoric. “ You are married ! You have a wife ! She is Archduchess of Sforza ! Where is she ? Ah ! you start; now I know where to touch you. Oh, what a revenge shall be mine ! Not a word; you j will bless death itself, when it comes!” lowed close behind. The last words of Theo doric reached their ears, and they paused, Paulo with his hand on the door. After he had spo ken, Theodoric fell back on his seat, nearly insensible. Editha sprang forward as the iron fell from Anselm’s grasp, and caught it up. “Cowards!” she hissed, “ I myself will do it!” Another moment, and her horrible work would have been accomplished; but Paulo sprang for ward and dashed her aside. Percy entered just behind him. Theodoric—or Adrielo, as we shall now call him—rose to his feet slowly, revealing, in the brilliant light borne by his friends, a most pite ous spectacle. His limbs were emaciated fear fully, his clothes hung loosely upon him, his Long live Adrielo, Archduke of Sforza !’ The Duchess gazed wildly at Garcia and turned i deadly pale. “Long live Adrielo, and down with the base- born usurper and his worthless mother!” The Duchess shrieked aloud, and Garcia, catch- 1 ing her hand, cried, in a transport of terror: ‘ ‘ Let us save ourselves by flight!” “Rather let us defy them,” said the Duchess, gathering courage. “It may he a false alarm.” But the next moment the door was thrown open and Percy appeared, with Adrielo upon his arm, a retinue of armed followers in the rear. “My lord Count,” said Percy, advancing to the Count of Pavia, “receive and welcome your | kinsman, Adrielo, heir to the dukedom of | Sforza.” The Count, amazed as he was, instantly came forward. “I receive him at once,” he said. “His face is sufficient guarantee of his his right to the name he bears. He is the living likeness of my noble kinsman and master.” “These papers,” said Percy, putting the cas ket into the hands of the Count, “will establish his claim beyond all cavil. The people are im patient to see him ascend the throne. Will you lead him to it, my lord, while I perform that office for his bride, the lovely Lady Amalia, now Archduchess of Sforza ? I see there are none to dispute the honor; the usurping Duchess and her son have disappeared.” The Count of Pavia had too much diplomacy to betray his disappointment or his sympathy with the Duchess. He saw at once that her long- tottering rule was completely overthrown. He advanced with courtly smiles of welcome to Adrielo and led him to the throne, where he took his seat, amid the acclamations of the peo ple. Percy followed with Amalia, Paulo bring ing up the rear. . There were renewed plaudits from the people as the beautiful bride took her place on the throne beside her husband. In the midst of the joyful tumult, Percy sought the side of Lolita, the bride who was to have been, albeit against her will. “Lady,” he said, in the soft, deep tones that had haunted her ever since that interview in the convent garden, “I have redeemed my pledge— I have come to claim my reward. You remem ber it, do you not? It was a kiss from that sweet mouth. Have I not won it fairly ?” Suffused with blushes, yet radiant with hap piness, she turned to him, saying softly: “You have won it fairly. But must it be given here ? before all these ?” “ Give me the right to claim it before them all,” he answered. “You wear the habiliments of a bride—fulfill the personation; be my bride, fair Lolita. The Archduke shall vouch" for me to your father. With you, my sweet, I need no guarantees; your heart has given me its confi dence—has it not, Lolita?” She put her hand into his on the instant, and looked up at him with eyes full of faith and ten derness. Taking her hand, he led her to where the Count, her father, stood apart. With the Archduke to vouch for Percy’s noble name and stainless character, the Count could make no obstacle to the immediate marriage of his daughter, especially since he knew that Percy would he the prime favorite at court, and he able to command royal favor and preferment. In an hour, the marriage was solemnized, the people that still thronged the hall, the armed retainers and soldiery, looking on with delight, and ringing forth their shouts of gratulation when their brave young leader bent his princely head and pressed upon the lips of the bride the kiss he had claimed as his reward. [the end.] [For The Sunny South.] REFLECTIONS JN THE SHADE. WO. t.-THE HARP OF GEORGIA. BY H. D C. RICHARD HENRY WILDE. There is a gem of real sentiment, a priceless jewel preserved in a casket worthy of its value, for the appreciation of those who visit the library of the Georgia Historical Society, at Savannah. It is a modest volume, richly bound, which preserves the name of Richard Henry Wilde in the immortal purity of his own soul’s utteran ces. It is the treasured first note from Georgia's harp, sweet as the perfume of the flower it sings of—an incense purer even than the breath of the rose when its young petals are first kissed by the sunbeams. Richard Henry Wilde, as the lawyer, the au thor, the accomplished gentleman, the ornament of society, may pass away from the memory of his associates; with his human faults and hu man foibles he may he forgotten, but he who sang of the “Summer Rose ” will live as long as the language which expressed the music of his soul shall preserve the thoughts of man. While his “Life of Tasso ” is only read by the anti quarian, or encumbers the shelves of book sellers, this single poem is recognized as a gem, even in fault-finding England, and promises to embalm his name in literary immortality. It was not until after the melancholy death <tf Wilde, that this note which he had struck upon our harp fell sweetly and softly upon the heart, and brought a responsive echo of sympathy over rivers and across the tempest-tossed sea. Like the expressions of true genius in every age, it was not until after he had been bruised in life’s rough crucible, that the perfume of his roses filled the air. Let us stop in this cool shade, away from the material rush of life, and refresh our better natures by reading the poem; here by the bab- ling brook is just the place to take in the music of our harp and catch the sweet refrain which, as a gentle echo, comes from the harp of Mary land, as touched by the fingers of gentle woman. “ My life is like the summer rose That opens to the morning’s sky; But e’er the shades of evening close. Is scattered on the ground to die. Yet on that rose’s humble bed The sweetest dews of night are shed, As if she wept such waste to see; But none shall weep a tear for me. “ My life is like the autumn leaf, That trembles in the moon’s pale ray; Its hold is frail, its date is brief, Restless, and soon to pass away. Yet e’er that leaf shall fall and fade. The parent tree shall mourn its shade; The wind bewail the leafless tree, But none shall breathe a sigh for me. “ My life is like the prints which feet Have left on Tampa’s desert strand— Soon as the rising tide shall beat, All trace shall vanish from the sand. Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race, On that lone shore, loud moans the sea; But none, alas ! shall mourn for me.” These three verses have immortalized a name, for in them there was the spirit of some other sphere than this poor earth. Some time after the publication of the poem (which, as my memory serves me, was found among the papers of Wilde after his death), there came from the harp of Maryland, from a Balti more lady, a response in the following words : “ The dews of night may fall from heaven Upon the withered rose’s bed, And the tears of fond regret be given To mourn the virtues of the dead. Yet morning’s sun the dews will dry, And tears will fade from sorrow’s eye, Affection’s pangs be lulled to sleep, And even love forget to weep. “ The tree may mourn its fallen leaf, And autumn winds bewail its bloom, And friends may heave a sigh of grief O’er those who sleep within the tomb. Yet soon will spring renew the flowers. And time will bring more smiling hours— In friendship’s heart all grief will die, And even love forget to sigh. * The sea may on the desert shore Lament each trace it bears away; The lonely heart its grief may pour O’er cherished friendship's fast decay. Yet when all track is lost and gone, The waves dance bright and gaily on; Thus soon affection's bonds are torn, And even love forgets to mouru.” All that was mortal of Bicharil Henry Wilde was deposited in the cemetery at Savannah, where it is proposed to erect a suitable monu ment to his memory. If the spirits of the dead commune with the living (and who doubts it?) there must be to the soul of Wilde, sick as it was with this buffet ing, selfish world, an exquisite joy in realizing the fact that there are those yet living who, in all sincerity, “weep a tear ” for him. HENRY E. JACKSON. From the same place in which Wilde had strung the harp of Georgia, there came following his sad, sweet notes, the music of another soul. The “lied Hills,” the green valleys and busy marts of Georgia soon became familiar with the strain as Jackson touched the chord of patriot ism, or from the mountains and classic haunts of Europe sent back to his home the softer notes of his inspiration. He yet lives, and the writer detests too much the blaze chfiracter of ful some praise to offend his appreciative nature by even a candid expression of the estimate in which his genius is held. We will dwell a mo ment, however, with the “lied Old Hills” in sight of us, and give back to them the selection from his song. “ The red old hills of Georgia l So bald and bare and bleak, * Their memory tills my spirit With thoughts I cannot speak. They have no robe of verdure, Stripped naked to the blast, And yet of all the varied earth, I love them best at last. “ I love them for the pleasure With which my life was blest, When, e’er I left in boyhood, My footprints on their breast. When in the rain had perished Those steps on plain and knoll, Then vanished, with the storm of grief, Joy’s footprints from my soul. ** I love them for the living. The generous, kind and gay, And for the dead who slumber Within their breasts of clay. I love them for the beauty That cheers the social hearth; I love them for their rosy girls, The fairest on the earth. “ The red old hills of Georgia I never can forget! Amid life’s joys and sorrows, My heart is on them yet; And when my cause is ended— When life her web has wove— Oh! may I then beneath those hills, Live close to them I love !” We select these verses almost at random from the poem, which is too long only because these pencilings must not be too elaborate. There is real soul music in this poem. Long may the author live to touch again the chords of the harp upon which he has so charmingly played. There are others who have sung and yet sing sweetly. From Macon, Atlanta, and near where these reflections are written for you, almost every chord has been touched. Of these let some other day and hour prompt an expression. While "the harp of Georgia remains strung and continues to give forth such music, well may we expect the return of a brighter day—a day which shall return the elevated sentiment of the past to our people, and check the growth of a sensual, groveling materialism.