SONNET.

WHEN, like a stately maid, the moon goes down,

And hides herself far in the western sky,

Beyond the vision of a watchful eye,

Behind the mountains looking dull and brown,

I think of you in that old Tuscan town

Which sleeps on Arno's bank; and, musing, try

In fancy to behold the moon draw nigh,

And light the city with her crescent crown.

When she, to-night, shall let the moonbeams gay,

Along the ancient paved roadways creep,

I know these magic mimics of the day

Will climb the wall, and in your window peep

And cry, "A thousand joys!" - ther steal away,

First having kissed your eyelids fast asleep.

- Acta Columbiana.