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'Twas partly Love and partly Fear,

THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE. And partly 'twas a bashful art,

OW many summers, love, That I might rather feel than see

Have I been thine ? The swelling of her heart.

How many days, love, I calmed her fears, and she was calm,

Hast thou been mine? And told her love with virgin pride,

Time, like the winged wind And so I won my Genevieve,

When 't bends the flowers, My bright and beauteous bride.

Hath left no mark behind,

To count the hours !
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

Some weight of thought, though loth,

On thee he leaves;
Some lines of care round both

Perhaps he weaves ;
Some fears; a soft regret

For joys scarce known;
Sweet looks we half forget;

All else is flown!

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Ah! with what thankless heart

I mourn and sing !
Look, where our children start,

Like sudden spring!
With tongues all sweet and low,

Like a pleasant rhyme,
They tell how much I owe
To thee and Time!

BRYAN W. PROCTER.

(Barry Cornwall.)

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

A PETITION TO TIME. Poucit us gently, Time!

Let us glide adown the stream
Gently, as we sometimes glide

Through a quiet dream!
Humble voyagers are we,
Husband, wife, and children three ;
(One is lost-an angel, fled
To the azure overhead!)
Touch us gently, Time!

We've not proud nor soaring wings;
Our ambition, our content,

Lies in simple things.
Humble voyagers are we
O'er life's dim, unsounded sea,
Seeking only some calm clime;
Touch us gently, gentle Time!

BRYAN W. PROCTER.

(Barry Cornwall.)

SONNET. (It is said that soon after the death of Longfellow, io 1882, the following tribute to his wife, which was written in July, 1879, was found in his portfolio. The lines were not, we believe, made public until very recently.) IN the long, sleepless watches of the night, f A gentle face—the face of one long deadLooks at me from the wall, where round its

head
The night lamp casts a halo of pale light.
Here in this room she died, and soul more

white
Never through martyrdom of fire was led
To its repose; nor can in books be read
The legend of a life more benedight.
There is a mountain in the distant west
That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines
Displays a cross of snow upon its side.
Such is the cross I wear upon my breast
These eighteen years, through all the chang-

ing scenes
And seasons, changeless since the day she

died.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

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THE GUDE-WIFE.
FEEL I'm growing auld, gude-wife, I feel I'm growing auld, gude-wife,
I feel I'm growing auld;

I feel I'm growing auld;
My steps are frail, my een are bleared, From youth to age I've keepit warm
My pow is unco bauld.

The luve that ne'er turned cauld.
I've seen the snaws o’ fourscore years

I canna bear the dreary thocht O'er hill and meadow fa',

That we maun sindered be; And, hinnie, were it no for you,

There's naething binds my puir auld heart I'd gladly slip awa'.

To earth, gude-wife, but thee.

JAMES LINEN.

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