• In short, sir, 'the belle of the season,

Is wasting an hour upon you."

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.
But, Goodness! what nonsense I'm writing!

Mamma says my taste is still low;
Instead of my triumphs reciting,

I'm spooning on Joseph-heigh-ho!
And I'm to be “finished” by travel,

Whatever's the meaning of that;
Oh, why did papa strike pay-gravel,

In drifting on Poverty Flat ?
Good-night! Here's the end of my paper;

Good-night-if the longitude please;
For maybe, while wasting my paper,

Your sun's climbing over the trees.
But know, if you haven't got riches,

And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that,
That my heart's somewhere there in the

ditches, And you've struck it-on Poverty Flat!

(FRANCIS) BRET HARTE.

FROM "THE DAY IS DONE."

musie

he migle shall be filledinte

And the sames, that infert the day,
Shall fold their tents like stor Arabes
And as silently steak away.

Herren Songfellows

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.

now rove

DUKE

CONCEALED LOVE.

(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,

WILLIAM SHAKSPERE.

G

GO SIT BY THE SUMMER SE.A.
O sit by the summer sea,

Fast fades the gilded sky,
Thou whom scorn wasteth,

And the full moon on high
And let thy musing be

Ceaselessly waneth.
Where the flood hasteth;
Mark how o'er ocean's breast

Smile then ye sage and wise,
Rolls the hoar billow's crest!

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
Or the free sight doth range,

Boast could it never.
What long remaineth?
Spring with her flowers doth die,

JAMES SHIRLEY.

SONG.

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.

I.

S"