He prayeth well, who loveth well "He prayeth best, who loveth best The Mariner, whose eye is bright, Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest He went like one that hath been stunn'd, A sadder and a wiser man He rose the morrow morn. KUBLA KHAN IN Xanadu did Kubla Khan So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Infolding sunny spots of greenery. But oh that deep romantic chasm which slanted And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Five miles, meandering with a mazy motion, The shadow of the dome of pleasure Where was heard the mingled measure It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she play'd, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me, That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, For he on honey-dew hath fed WILLIAM COLLINS WILLIAM COLLINS. Born at Chichester, England, December 25, 1721; died there, June 12, 1759. Author of "The Passions," the "Dirge in Cymbeline," an "Ode to Evening," which is one of the best pieces of metrical work in the language. HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE How sleep the brave who sink to rest, By fairy hands their knell is rung, ODE TO EVENING IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun With brede ethereal wove, O'erhang his wavy bed: Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat, His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises midst the twilight path, Now teach me, maid composed, To breathe some softened strain, Whose numbers stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit, As, musing slow, I hail Thy genial loved return! For when thy folding-star arising shows And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge Prepare thy shadowy car. Then lead, calm votaress, where some sheety lake Reflect its last cool gleam. But when chill blustering winds, or driving rain, That from the mountain's side Views wilds and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires; The gradual dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves And rudely rends thy robes; So long, sure found beneath the sylvan shed, And hymn thy favorite name! WILLIAM WILKIE COLLINS WILLIAM WILKIE COLLINS. A popular and voluminous novelist of great dramatic power, as well as a successful playwright. Born in London, January 8, 1824; died there, September 23, 1889. Author of "The Moonstone," "The Woman in White," "The New Magdalen," "No Name," "Basil," "The Dead Secret," "The Two Destinies," "The Legacy of Cain," "Armadale.” A TERRIBLY STRANGE BED SHORTLY after my education at college was finished, I happened to be staying at Paris with an English friend. We were both young men then, and lived, I am afraid, rather a wild life, in the delightful city of our sojourn. One night we were idling about the neighborhood of the Palais Royal, doubtful to what amusement we should next betake ourselves. My friend proposed a visit to Frascati's, but his suggestion was not to my taste. I knew Frascati's, as the French saying is, by heart; had lost and won plenty of five-franc pieces there, merely for amusement's sake, until it was amusement no longer, and was thoroughly tired, in fact, of all the ghastly respectabilities of such a social anomaly as a respectable gambling-house. "For |