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• 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!


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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



(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,


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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,



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!






HE walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light

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
Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

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,


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;
I stand serene midst nature's law

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 silver of the sleeping brook
Blew the gold hair about her eyes-
A mystery of mysteries!
So he must often pause, and stoop,
And all the wanton ringlets loop
Behind her dainty ear-emprise
Of slow event and many sighs.
Across the stream was scarce a step-
And yet she feared to try the leap;
And he, to still ber sweet alarm,
Must lift her over on his arm.
She could not keep the narrow way,
For still the little feet would stray,
And ever must he bend tundo

The tangled grasses from her shoe
From dainty rosebud lips in pout,
Must kiss the perfect flower out!

Ah! little coquettel Fair deceit!
Some things are bitter that were sweet.



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

moon ;
And the imperial vot’ress passed on,
In maiden meditation, fancy-free.
Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell:

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