14 NOVEMBER 1874, Page 14

POETRY.

A restless prescience—howsoever won—

Of a broad pathway leading to the sun, With promptings of an oft-reproved faith In sunward yearnings. Stricken tho' her breast, And faint her wing with beating at the bars

Of sense, she looks beyond out-lying stars, And only in the Infinite sees rest.

Sad soul ! if ever thy desire be bent Or broken to thy doom, and made to share The ruminant's beatitude,—content, Chewing the cud of knowledge, with no care

For germs of life within,—then will I say : Thou art not cag'd, but fitly stall'd in clay !

EMILY PFEIFFER.