The Troad.

has not been at work the smooth land tells no tale . Of the cities , only the sites are pointed out . The tombs are only tumuli . And therein , perhaps , lies the peculiar charm of the Troad . The region is so hoary as to have attained a second infancy . It is to all appearance not a land

used up or exhausted , but rather a virgin soil , ready to be drained , tilled , sowed , planted , and peopled anew . The impression is—or was , at least , to me—in the lovely spring weather , that of freshness and sweetness , of vigour and health .

A Stricken Heart.

A STRICKEN HEART .

( Writtenfor the Masonic Magazine . ) IN every bush the sweet birds sing , On every bough the buds have come ; A 11 nature speaks of balmy Spring , Of resurrection from the tomb . The scented may on every hedge ,

The cuckoo calling to his mate ; A gladsome look is everywhere , And only I am desolate . A world of happiness around ; The picture of a fair young life ; So full of hope , and peace , and love , As though there wew not fear and strife .

I stood at brink of mossy dell , And listened to the warblers there ; And wondered at sweet Philomel , As loud he chanted to his fair . Why sing the birds on every tree ? Why glow the fields with bright wild

flowers ? What all this vernal wealth to me Who nevermore have happy hours ? Be still , sad heart , no more repine ; Should all the world be sad for thee 1 What , if the brightness of thy life

Have gone , and joy no more can be ? The earth is fair ; some hearts are kind ; And nature now how glad she seems ; The young lambs gambol in their joy , The morning sun hath rosy beams . The verdant meads are wet with dew

, The modest violet hangs her head In mossy brake where daffodils Have bloomed on saffron , tinted-bed . Take heart of grace , and look on these , And thank the Maker of them all ,

A Stricken Heart.

That He hath made a world so bright , And granted joy to great and small . Doth Death come only now to thee ? Hath Love betrayed no other one ? Aye , tear-drops fall from other eyes , And gloom comes when the day is done .

The grey clouds sail across the sky , And cast deep shadows o ' er the meads ; There is no joy for cloistered nun , Nor grey-clad friar who tells his beads . The fire of life hath long gone out , The glow of love long quenched hath

been ; And only the cold grey of life , Remains for these ; no more is seen . Yet they are well content , and thou Must learn to be resigned as they , Remembering that , though Spring-time now , The Autumn is not faraway .

With patient waiting peace will come , And grace to bear thy weary load ; So pray that when thy earthly home Thou leavest for that bright abode—In those celestial mansions where An everlasting Spring-time reigns ,

And there shall be no summer glare , Nor melancholy Autumn strains . No winds that sigh through empty aisles , Of leafless trees in forest vast ; Thou wilt remember , yet forget , The pain of life which now is past .

So welcome Autumn ' s slow decay , And welcome death and Winter ' s pall , When "flowers are in their grassy tombs , And tears of dew are on them all . " * May , 1876 . EMRA HOLMES .

Notes On Literature, Science And Art.

NOTES ON LITERATURE , SCIENCE AND ART .

BY BRO . GEORGE MARKHAM TWEDDELL , Fellow of the Royal Society of Northern Antiquaries , Copenhagen ; Corresponding Member ol' the Royal Historical Society , London ; Honorary Member of the Manchester Literary Club , and of ihe Whitby Literary and Philosophical Society , & c , & c . ( Continued from page 636 . )

COL . Fishwick , F . S . A ., author of the History of the Parochial Chapelry of Goosnargh noticed in the January number