The web of life, with colors rare,

Designed for thee by hand divine, Shows beauty in the pattern where

The sombre with the bright combine.

Some day you'll see the web complete,

When all this shade, so dark, will be Most prized; and then, in chorus sweet,

You'll sing: "The Father loveth me."

"Fitz-Mac" (Fitz James MacCarthy.) “Fitz-Mac”

A PARTING BOUT TO FIELD.

ON LEAVING THE DENVER TRIBUNE FOR THE CHICAGO NEWS, JULY, 1883.

Here's a bowl before you go,

Eugene Field.

Here's a bowl before you go,

And our hearts by this you'll know,
And-God bless the tears that flow
For you, Field.

God bless the friendly tears,

And God keep you through the years,
Kind old Field;

Unto you we raise the cup

Fill, boys, and drink it up
To old Field.

To his free and friendly smile,
To his wit that flows the while

In a torrent without guile,

Our old Field.

His humor often burst

On foibles we had nursed,

But never man hath cursed

Gentle Field;

For he knows so well to bring

The laughter with a ring,

Yet never leave a sting-.
Does old Field,

That we all forget his hits

And applaud his genial wits,

And-God bless him, there he sits,
Sly old Field.

Were we women we should kiss
The friend we're soon to miss;
But that's woman's special bliss
With old Field.

So we'll only drink to bless him,
And we'll let "the sex" caress him
And worry and distress him-

Here's to Field.

We'll wreathe your name with posies,
With evergreens and roses,

Eugene Field!

Rise, boys, and let us cheer him!

God bless him and endear him

To the friends that may be near him,

Dear old Field.

THE COQUETTE.

"Good night!-ah let me see," she said,

"You're leaving town, I b'lieve you say?

Well, I have so enjoyed the ball,

And-was not this a pleasant day?

Good night!"

She made a move to pass me by,

Her slippered foot was on the stair,

I seized her jeweled hand in mine

And begged the rose from out her hair.

She was a peerless flirt they said

And knew the arts that can beguile;

She took the flower from her hair

And gave it with a queenly smile.

I raised her fingers to my lips;

She, archly mocking sadness, said: "You'll think of me sometimes, I hope, At least until that flower is dead?"

I clasped her form, I told my love,
I vowed I never could forget-
A glistening tear stood in her eye,
She murmured something of regret.

"Twas but a moment thus we stood, She quickly drew herself away

And, leaning o'er the balustrade,

Said: "This has been a pleasant day;
Good night!"

AN EXQUISITE SORROW.

I slept the while my love was waking,
I slept and oh, my love went by,
And not a tear in that proud eye,
Although I knew her heart was breaking.

My proud fair love, so tender hearted!
She would not one should say she wept!
I curse me that I could have slept,
And only waked to find us parted.

I may not haste and overtake her,
For we must ever bide apart;

But oh, it grieves me to the heart
That she should think I could forsake her.

My yearning arms reach out a-toward her, Across the abyss that parts our ways; I grieve to think of those sweet days When she believed that I adored her.

Oh, love, dear love, my voice it calls thee,
Come back across that dark abyss,
And I will meet thee with a kiss-
The echo of my voice appalls me!

L'ENVOI.

Love stands above the grave of passion
And smiles a sad, regretful smile;
But memory comes and raves the while
In anguished tones and bitter fashion.