I leave you in the dear old home
    That once was mine—­now mine no more: 
  Henceforth a stranger I must come
    To haunts so well beloved of yore;
  Yet if your faces turn to mine
    The kindly smile I’m wont to see,
  Not all, not all I must resign—­
    My lost home’s light still shines for me!

  Whatever chance or change be mine
    In other climes, ’neath foreign skies,
  Your love, your kindness, I shall hold
    Dearest amid dear memories. 
  O eyes grown dim with falling tears! 
    O lips where Sorrow lays her spell! 
  The saddest task of all life’s years
    Is yours—­to look and say farewell!

  LUCY H. HOOPER. 
  AUGUSTIN’S, April 7, 1873.

NOTES.

Between the careers of Cavour and Thiers no sound parallel can easily be traced, but in their characters—­or rather in their diplomatic methods and arts—­there would seem to be some curious and almost ludicrous points of resemblance, if we may accept as true a sketch of the great Italian statesman made by M. Plattel, the author of “Causeries Franco-Italiennes,” fifteen years ago.  M. Plattel, who wrote from close personal observation, at that time described Count Cavour as being physically “M.  Thiers magnified;” or, if you prefer, M. Thiers is the count viewed through the big end of an opera-glass.  The count, says M. Plattel, “has the spectacles, and even a similar expression of finesse.  When things take a serious turn, the count puts both hands in his pockets; and if you see him do that, expect to hear this threat:  ’If you do not pass this bill, signori deputati, I consider you incapable of longer managing the affairs of the country:  I have the honor of bidding you good-evening.’  For (and this is a strange peculiarity) this first minister is never steadier than when in danger of falling; and his grand oratorical, or rather ministerial, figure of speech is to seize his hat and his cane, whereupon the chamber rises and begs M. de Cavour to sit down.  M. de Cavour lets them plead a while, and then—­he sits down again!  Reading his speeches now in Paris, I can fancy the count with his hat by his side and his hand on the door-knob.  Heaven knows how many times that comedy-proverb of Musset called ‘A door must either be open or shut,’ has been gravely played by the Sardinian Parliament and the prime minister!” It is with a very droll effect that a French paper has revived this curious description, a propos of the perpetual repetition of the drama played by the French Assembly and the French president, in which the constant threats of resignation on the one hand are invariably followed by passionate and despairing entreaties to “stay” on the other.  It is the old story of Cavour and the door-knob over again; and even the great Bismarck, by the way, does not disdain a resort occasionally to the same terrible pantomime.  “The only