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And tallow on head-dress and shawl; Of the steps that we took to one fiddle,
Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis; And how I once went down the middle
With the man that shot Sandy McGee.
Of the moon that was quietly sleeping
On the hill when the time came to go; Of the few baby peaks that were peeping
From under their bed-clothes of snow; Of that ride—that to me was the rarest;
Of the something you said at the gate; Ah! Joe! then I wasn't the heiress
To “the best paying lead in the state."
Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter,
The Lily of Poverty Flat.
Mamma says my taste is still low;
I'm spooning on Joseph-heigh-ho!
Whatever's the meaning of that;
In drifting on Poverty Flat ?
Good-night-if the longitude please;
Your sun's climbing over the trees.
And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that,
ditches, And you've struck it-on Poverty Flat!
(FRANCIS) BRET HARTE.
FROM "THE DAY IS DONE."
he migle shall be filledinte
And the sames, that infert the day,
LOVE'S GHOST. Is it the ghost of dead and ruined Love I say, “Sad visitant of this dark house, Which haunts the Home of Life, and comes Why wanderest thou through these deserted by night
rooms, With weary sighs, and in its eyes the light A dreadful, glimmering light about thy browsi Of joys long set ? I hear its footsteps move Thy silent home should be among the Through darkened rooms where only ghosts tombs."
And the ghost answers, while I thrill with The rooms Love's shining eyes of old made fear, bright.
"In all the world I have no home but here." It whispers low, it trembles into sight;
PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON A bodiless presence hearts alone may prove.
(From Twelfth Night. Act II., Scene 4.)
And what's her history? Smiling at grief. Was not this love, inVio. A blank, my lord ; she never told deed? her love,
We men may say more, swear more: but, inBut let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
deed Feed on her damask cheek; she pin'd in Our shows are more than will; for still we thought;
prove And with a green and yellow melancholy, Much in our vows, but little in our love. She sat,like patience on a monument,
GO SIT BY THE SUMMER SE.A.
Fast fades the gilded sky,
And the full moon on high
Smile then ye sage and wise,
And if love sever Such is his heart's unrest
Bonds which thy soul doth prize, Who of love tasteth.
Such does it ever.
Deep as the rolling seas, Griev'st thou that hearts should change ?
Soft as the twilight breeze, Lo, where life reigneth,
But of more than these
Boast could it never.
Where the mellow bees are humming and tho (From "The Duenna.")
apple blossoms float:
Is she biding, is she biding where the brooklet @OFT pity never leaves the gentle breast * Where love has been received a welcome And does she bind the daisies in a posy for
leaps and trills, guest;
her throat ? As wandering saints poor huts have sacred
made, He hallows every heart he once has swayed ;
Somewhere, somewhere, I know not where, And when his presence we no longer share,
My love and I shall meet, Still leaves compassion as a relic there.
For there's a Fate through foul and fair RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.
That guides my wayward feet.
Is she biding where the starlight gleams upon
the frozen gloom, And faintly sing the carols that awake the
drowsy morn ? Is she biding, is she biding where the roses
never bloom, And the poppies never wave their crimson
banner through the corn?
She bides somewhere, I know not where,
But surely this I know: "Twill always seem like summer there, Howe'er the wind may blow!
SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.
SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.
RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.
HE walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
“IS SHE BIDING ?” S she biding where eternal summer smiles
upon the seas, And the snowy orange blossoms ever flake the
shelly strand ? Is she biding, is she biding where the tender
tropic breeze Tells the story of his wooings to the billows
on the sand ?
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
Somewhere, somewhere, I know not where, And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, Upon the land or sea
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, Somewhere, somewhere, all pure and fair, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, My love abides for me.
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below, Is she biding 'mid the clover blossoms upon
A heart whose love is innocent! the purple bills,
GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON.
MY OWN SHALL COME. ERENE I fold my hands and wait,
Nor care for wind or tide or sea, I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,
For lol my own shall come to me.
I stay my haste, I make delays,
For what avails this eager pace ? I stand amid the eternal ways
And what is mine shall know my face.
Asleep, awake, by night or day,
The friends I seek are seeking me; No wind can drive my bark astray,
Or change the tide of destiny.
What matter if I stand alone ?
I wait with joy the coming years, My heart shall reap where it has sown,
And garner up the fruit of tears.
The planets know their own and draw,
The tide turns to the sea;
And know my own shall come to me.
The stars come nightly to the sky,
The dews fall on the lea; Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high Can keep my own away from me.
THROUGH THE MEADOW. UDHE summer sun was soft and bland,
As they went through the meadow land.
The little wind that hardly shook
The tangled grasses from her shoe
Ah! little coquettel Fair deceit!
WILLIAM D. HOWELLS.
WILLIAM D. HOWELLS.
CUPID DEFIED. (From "Midsummer Night's Dream,” Act I., Scene 2.) M Y gentle Puck, come hither; thou remem
ber'st Šince once I sat upon a promontory, And heard a mermaid, on a dolphin's back, Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath, That the rude sea grew civil at her song; And certain stars shot madly from their
spheres, To hear the sea-maid's music. Puck.
I remember. Obe. That very time I saw (but thou could'st
not ) Flying between the cold moon and the earth, Cupid all arm’d; a certain aim he took At a fair vestal, throned by the west; And loos’d his love-shaft smartly from his bow As it should pierce a hundred thousand
hearts: But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft Quench'd in the chaste beams of the wat'ry