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SLEEP, my sweet girl ! and all the sleep
You take away from others, keep :
A night, no distant one, will come
When those you took your slumbers from,
Generous—ungenerous—will consess
Their joy that you have slumber'd less,
And envy more than they condemn
The rival who avenges them.

Walter Savage Landor.



The maid I love ne'er thought of me
Amid the scenes of gaiety;
But when her heart or mine sank low,
Ah, then it was no longer so.

From the slant palm she raised her head,
And kiss'd the cheek whence youth had fled.
Angels ! some future day for this,
Give her as sweet and pure a kiss.

Walter Savage Landor.



Nov. 27, 1852.

Two friends within one grave we place

United in our tears, -
Sisters, scarce parted for the space

of more than eighty years ;
And she whose bier is borne to-day,

The one the last to go,
Bears with her thoughts that force their way
Above the moment's woe;

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Thoughts of the varied human life

Spread o'er that field of time-
The toil, the passion, and the strife,

The virtue and the crime.
Yet 'mid this long tumultuous scene,

The image on our mind
Of these dear women rests serene

In happy bounds confined.
Within one undisturbed abode

Their presence seems to dwell, From which continual pleasures flowed,

And countless graces sell; Not unbecoming this our age

Of decorative forms, Yet simple as the hermitage

Exposed to Nature's storms.

Our English grandeur on the shelf

Deposed its decent gloom,
And every pride unloosed itself

Within that modest room ;
Where none were sad, and few were dull,

And each one said his best,
And beauty was most beautiful

With vanity at rest.

Brightly the day's discourse rolled on,

Still casting on the shore Memorial pearls of days bygone,

And worthies now no more ; And little tales of long ago

Took meaning from those lips,
Wise chroniclers of joy and woe,

And eyes without eclipse.
No taunt or scoff obscured the wit

That there rejoiced to reign;
They never could have laughed at it

If it had carried pain.
There needless scandal, e'en though true,

Provoked no bitter smile,
And even men-of-fashion grew

Benignant for a while.

Not that there lacked the nervous scorn

At every public wrong,
Not that a friend was left torlorn

When victim of the strong :
Free words, expressing generous blood,

No nice punctilio weighed,
For deep and earnest womanhood

Their reason underlaid.

As generations onward came,

They loved from all to win
Revival of the sacred flame

That glowed their hearts within.
While others in Time's greedy mesh

The faded garlands flung,
Their hearts went out and gathered fresh

Affections from the young.
Farewell, dear ladies ! in your loss

We feel the past recede,
The gap our hands could almost cross

Is now a gulf indeed :
Ye, and the days in which your claims

And charms were early known,
Lose substance, and ye stand as names

That History makes its own.

Farewell ! the pleasant social page

Is read, but ye remain
Examples of ennobled age,

Long life without a stain ;
A lesson to be scorned by none,

Least by the wise and brave,
Delightful as the winter sun
That gilds this open grave.

Richard, Lord Houghton.




THE Archery meeting is fixed for the third ;
The fuss that it causes is truly absurd ;

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I've bought summer bonnets for Rosa and Bess,
And now I must buy each an archery dress !
Without a green suit they would blush to be seen,
And poor little Rosa looks horrid in green!


Poor sat little Rosa ! she's shooting all day!
She sends forth an arrow expertly they say ;
But 'tis terribie when with exertion she warms,
And she seems to me getting such muscular arms;
And if she should hit, 'twere as well if she missed,
Prize bracelets could never be clasped on her wrist !


Dear Bess with her elegant figure and face,
Looks quite a Diana, the queen of the place ;
But as for the shooting-she never takes aim ;
She talks so, and laughs so! the beaux are to blame :
She doats on flirtation-but oh ! by-the-bye,
'Twas awkward her shooting out Mrs. Flint's eye !


They've made my poor husband an archer elect;
He dresses the part with prodigious effect;
A pair of nankeens, with a belt round his waist,
And a quiver of course in which arrows are placed ;
And a bow in his hand-oh! he looks of all things
Like a corpulent Cupid berest of his wings !


They dance on the lawn, and we mothers, alas !
Must sit on camp stools with our feet in the grass ;
My Rosa and Bessy no partners attract !
The Archery men are all cross Beaux in fact !
Among the young Ladies some hits there may be,
But still at my elbow two misses I see !

Thomas H. Bayly.



ALTHOUGH I enter not,
Yet round about the spot

Oft-times I hover:
And near the sacred gate,
With longing eyes I wait,

Expectant of her.

The Minster bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,

And noise and humming :
They've hush'd the Minster bell :
The organ ’gins to swell.

She's coming, she's coming!

My lady comes at last,
Timid, and stepping fast,

And hastening hither,
With modest eyes downcast :
She comes—she's here—she's past-

May heaven go with her!

Kneel, undisturb’d, fair Saint !
Pour out your praise or plaint

Meekly and duly;
I will not enter there,
To sully your pure prayer

With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,

Lingering a minute
Like outcast spirits who wait
And see through heaven's gate
Angels within it.

William Makepeace Thackeray.

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