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THE LILI POND. OME fairy spirit with his wand,

Oh! there together while we stood,
I think, has hovered o'er the dell,

A butterfly was wafted o'er
And spread this film upon the pond,
And touched it with this drowsy spell, In sleepy light; and even now

His glimmering beauty doth return For here the musing soul is merged

Upon me when the soft winds blow, In woods no other scene can bring,

And lilies toward the sunlight yearn. And sweeter seems the air when scourged With wandering wild-bee's murmuring.

The yielding wood? And yet t’was loth

To yield unto our happy march; One ripple streaks the little lake,

Doubtful it seemed, at times, if both Sharp purple-blue; the birches, thin

Could pass its green, elastic arch.
And silvery, crowd the edge, yet break
To let a straying sunbeam in.

Yet there, at last, upon the marge

We found ourselves, and there, behold, How came we through the yielding wood, In hosts the lilies, white and large,

That day, to this sweet-rustling shore ? Lay close with hearts of downy gold!

SO

Deep in the weedy waters spread

The rootlets of the placid bloom :
So sprung my love's flower, that was bred

In deep still waters of hearts-gloom.
So sprung; and so that morn was nursed

To live in light and on the pool
Wherein its roots were deep immersed,
Burst into beauty broad and cool.

Would through the airy region stream

bright, That birds would sing and think it were not

night. See how she leans her cheek upon her hand! 0, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek.

WILLIAM SHAKSPERE.

ROM

Few words were said as moments passed;

TREU UND FEST.
I know not how it came—that awe
And ardor of a glance that cast

@OME blame the years that fly so fast, Our love in universal law.

* And sigh o'er loves and friendships

gone; But all at once a bird sang loud,

While others say too long they last, From dead twigs of the gloamy beach,

And wish each day were earlier done. His notes dropped dewy, as from a cloud, A blessing on our married speech.

But thou art none of these—to thee

The past is past; past not in vain.
Ah, love! how fresh and rare, even now, Days lived in life's reality-
That moment and that mood return

What need to wish them here again?
Cpon me, when the soft winds blow,
And lilies toward the sunlight yearn!

Days hallowed each by noble use-
GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP.

What need to wish them earlier done?
Who spend their souls in time's abuse

Are eager for to-morrow's sun.
BALCONY SCENE.

Thy trust and rest unbroken are ; (From " Romeo and Juliet,” Act II., Scene 2.)

In God's appointed pathway still POM. He jests at scars, that never felt Thy constant spirit, like a star, a wound.

Moves on accomplishing His will. [Juliet appears above at a window.

ANONYMOUS. But, soft! what light through yonder window

breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!

THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief,

GAED a waefu' gate yestere'en, That thou her maid art far more fair than she: | A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue; Be not her maid, since she is envious;

I gat my death frae twa sweet een,
Her vestal livery is but sick and green,

Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue.
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.-
It is my lady; 0, it is my love!

'Twas not her golden ringlets bright, 0, that she knew she were!

Her lips like roses wet wi’ dew, She speaks, yet she says nothing; what of

Her heaving bosom, lily-white; that?

It was her een sae bonnie blue. Her eye discourses, I will answer it.

She talked, she smiled, my heart she wiled, I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks:

She charmed my soul, I wist na how; Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,

And aye the stound, the deadly wound, Having some business, do entreat her eyes

Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. To twinkle in the spheres till they return. What if her eyes were there, they in her But spare to speak, and spare to speed; head?

She'll aiblins listen to my vow; The brightness of her cheek would shame Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead those stars,

To her twa een sae bonnie blue. As daylight doth a lamp; her eye in heaven,

ROBERT BURNS.

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A MADRIGAL.

(From the Spanish.) ESTLE closely, little hand,

Closely, warmly clasped in mine! While across this evening land

Fainter grows the sunset-shine,

And a low breeze thrills the pine,
Then serenely dies away
Past the stranded wreck of day;

Linger, little hand, in mine!
Whisper, voice of liquid tone,

Whisper in thy captive's ear; Of all voices Earth has known,

Thine is sweetest, Love, to hear;

Heaven therein seems strangely near,
Since it hath the fall and rise
Of the rills of Paradise

On the soul's enraptured ear!
Tremble, oh! thou tender breast,

But for joy that, borne apart, Love hath built for love a nest

In his deep entranced heart.

There, my gentler self, thou art, (While for thy pure-thoughted sake All the songs of Eden wake)

Sheltered, tranquil and apart. Flutter nigh me, timorous lips,

Coy as bird-wings poised for flight; Ah! but twilight's half eclipse

Slowly melteth into night;

Then ye faltering lips alight, *Soft as dew-falls of the South, On a softly answering mouth.

Surely veiled by gracious night,
Hidden with the flickering flush
of his own delicious blush,
Love may kiss, and kiss aright!

PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.

OH, HAD MY LOVE NE'ER

SMILED ON ME."

(From ". The Duenna."
H, had my love ne'er smiled on me,

I ne'er had known such anguish;
But think how false, how cruel she,

To bid me cease to languish!
To bid me hope her hand to gain,

Breathe on a flame half perished ;
And then with cold and fixed disdain,

To kill the hope she cherished !
Not worse his fate, who on a wreck,

That drove as winds did blow it,
Silent had left the shattered deck,

To find a grave below it;
Then land was cried—no more resigned,

He glowed with joy to hear it;
Not worse his fate, his woe, to find
The wreck must sink ere near it.

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

SERENADE.

(From The Pirate.")
OVE wakes and weeps, while Beauty
ler sleeps!

O for music's softest numbers,
To prompt a theme for Beauty's dream,

Soft as the pillow of her slumbers !
Through groves of palm sigh gales of balm,

Fire-flies on the air are wheeling;
While through the gloom comes soft perfume,

The distant beds of flowers revealing.
O wake and live! No dream can give

A shadowed bliss the real excelling;
No longer sleep; from lattice peep,
And list the tale that Love is telling!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

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LOTE.

(From "The Minister's Wooing." O not listen to hear whom a woman praises, to know where her heart is; do not ask for whom she expresses the most earnest enthusiasm. But if there be one she once knew well, whose name she never speaks; if she seems to have an instinct to avoid every oc

casion of its mention; if, when you speak, she drops into silence and changes the subject-why, look there for something!—just as, when getting through deep meadow-grass, a bird flies ostentatiously up before you, you may know her nest is not there, but far off under distant tufts of fern and buttercup, through which she has crept, with a silent flutter in her spotted breast, to act her pretty little falsehood before you.

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

WHE

WHEN STARS ARE IN THE QUIET SKIES. ('HEN stars are in the quiet skies, There is an hour when holy dreams Then most I pine for thee;

Through slumber fairest glide, Bend on me then thy tender eyes,

And in that mystic hour it seems
As stars look on the sea;

Thou shouldst be by my side.
For thoughts, like waves that glide by night,
Are stillest when they shine;

My thoughts of thee too sacred are

For daylight's common beam; Mine earthly love lies hushed in light,

I can but know thee as my star, Beneath the heaven of thine.

My angel, and my dream!

When stars are in the quiet skies, There is an hour when angels keep

Then most I pine for thee;
Familiar watch o'er men,

Bend on me then thy tender eyes,
When coarser souls are wrapped in sleep; As stars look on the sea.
Sweet Spirit, meet me then!

SIR EDWARD BULWER, LORD LYTTON.

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THE SWEET NEGLECT.

(From "The Silent Woman.")
TILL to be neat, still to be dressed Give me a look, give me a face
As you were going to a feast,

That makes simplicity a grace ;
Still to be powdered, still perfumed;

Robes loosely flowing, hair as free; Lady, it is to be presumed,

Such sweet neglect more taketh me Though art's hid causes are not found,

Than all the adulteries of art! All is not sweet, all is not sound.

They strike my eyes, but not my heart.

BEN JONSON,

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