A city 'gainst the world's gray Prime,
Lost in some desert, far from Time,
Where noiseless Ages, gliding through,
Have only sifted sands and dew,
Were not more lone to one who first
Upon its giant silence burst,
Than this strange quiet, where the tide
Of life, upheaved on either side,
Hangs trembling, ready soon to beat
With human waves the Morning Street.
Ay, soon the glowing morning flood
Pours through this charmed solitude;
All silent now, this Memnon-stone
Will murmur to the rising sun;
The busy life this vein shall beat,--
The rush of wheels, the swarm of feet;
The Arachne-threads of Purpose stream
Unseen within the morning gleam;
The Life will move, the Death be plain;
The bridal throng, the funeral train,
Together in the crowd will meet,
And pass along the Morning Street.
* * * * *
IN A CELLAR
I.
It was the day of Madame de St. Cyr's dinner, an event I never missed;
for, the mistress of a mansion in the Faubourg St. Germain, there still
lingered about her the exquisite grace and good-breeding peculiar to the
old _regime_, that insensibly communicates itself to the guests till
they move in an atmosphere of ease that constitutes the charm of home.
One was always sure of meeting desirable and well-assorted people here,
and a _contre-temps_ was impossible. Moreover, the house was not at the
command of all; and Madame de St.
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