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I-bah! begone the stale device !
Too oft the cynic's heart of ice

Is warm upon his sleeve !—
I'll tell you truly why I stay
From your bright ingle-side away,

And what I say believe !

For thirty years, Frank, Christmas found

Me sitting by the side of one
Whose every draught in life was bound
In me, Frank, and who called me

“ Son." The autumn came; that sacred tie Was loosed by Death's cold hand, and I

Have since then stood alone;
Half of my heart within me glows ;
The better half—which no one knows-

Is hid-beneath a stone!

And I have dreamed that when the air

Is resonant with Christmas bells, When all have laid aside their care,

And happiness amongst us dwells,A step will echo on my

floor :
A thin white hand will chafe once more

My sorrow-clouded brow;
A sweet, sweet face will bend to mine,
A soft voice whisper, “Why repine,

My boy? I'm with thee now!”
God grant it, Frank! though false and vain

The promise given by such a thought,
The happiness it brings I'd fain

Acknowledge to be cheaply bought.
And if, friend, in your hour of glee,
A random fancy flies to me,

So paint me in your mind,

As one who, fenced with fields of snow,
Looks back, and sees a sunset glow
On vineyards left behind !

EDMUND Yates.

AT A COUNTRY-HOUSE.

MANSION, large but not too grand,
And here I'm stopped, for I-proh

pudor!
Can't teil you in what style it's

plannedElizabethan, Gothic, Tudor. Rich ivy softening red brick

Conceals all cause for artist stricture ; Around the trees grow tall and thick

A pleasant, homely English picture. Right homely too the pleasant face,

The pleasant voice that gives you greeting, They speak the gentleman—a race

That from our ranks is fast retreating. A host he's in himself and more ;

His wife's to all a liberal hostess ; Why, in yon darkened corridor

There's even lodging for a ghostess ! The guests! Be sure a jovial crew

As ever was amalgamated; Sweet ladies-lovers not a few

Have hence their heart-submission dated. Our host's young daughter, brightly fair,

Brings sunshine in the winter, bless her! E’en to yon dried-up fossil there,

His learned Reverence, the Professor.

For he is here, not half so stiff

As when he lectured us at Eton. That smiling lounger's Mr. Smiff,

The man they say Miss Rose is sweet on. A plunger's here, a journalist (Two youths whose ways are seldom straight

ways), A sporting parson, good at whist,

A preaching sportsman, good at gateways ;

A lady who once wrote a book,

And one of whom a book's been written ; One who a prize at London took,

And one who took a house at Ditton ; A “blue" who'll derivations trace

And with long words your ears importune ; One blonde whose fortune is her face,

And one whose face caught her a fortune.

We dance, we flirt, we shoot, we ride,

Our host's a veritable Nimrod ; We fish the river's silver tide,

Miss Rose herself can wield a slim rod. We fall in love—and out again ;

Sometimes we sail in troubled waters, For pleasure oft gives birth to pain When shared with Eve's seductive daughters.

C. C. Rhys.

ARRIVALS AT A WATERING-PLACE.

PLAY a spade.-Such strange new

faces Are flocking in from near and far; Such frights !-(Miss Dobbs holds all

the aces) One can't imagine who they are: The lodgings at enormous prices,

New donkeys and another fly; And Madame Bonbon out of ices,

Although we're scarcely in July: We're quite as sociable as any,

But our old horse can scarcely crawl; And really, where there are so many,

We can't tell where we ought to call.

“ Pray who has seen the odd old fellow.

Who took the Doctor's house last week? A pretty chariot,-livery yellow,

Almost as yellow as his cheek ; A widower, sixty-five, and surly,

And stiffer than a poplar tree; Drinks rum and water, gets up early

To dip his carcass in the sea ;
He's always in a monstrous hurry,

And always talking of Bengal;
They say his cook makes noble curry ;-

I think, Louisa, we should call.

“And so Miss Jones, the mantua-maker,

Has let her cottage on the hill ! The drollest man,-a sugar-baker

Last year imported from the till ;

Prates of his ’orses and his 'oney,

Is quite in love with fields and farms;
A horrid Vandal,—but his money

Will buy a glorious coat of arms;
Old Clyster makes him take the waters;
Some

say he means to give a ball ; And after all, with thirteen daughters,

I think, Sir Thomas, you might call. “That poor young man !—I'm sure and certain

Despair is making up his shroud; He walks all night beneath the curtain

of the dim sky and murky cloud; Draws landscapes,-throws such mournfulglances, Writes verses,

-has such splendid eyes; An ugly name,—but Laura fancies

He's some great person in disguise ! And since his dress is all the fashion,

And since he's very dark and tall, I think that out of pure compassion,

I'll get Papa to go and call. “So Lord St. Ives is occupying

The whole of Mr. Ford's hotel ! Last Saturday his man was trying A little

nag I want to sell, He brought a lady in the carriage;

Blue eyes,-eighteen, or thereabouts ;Of course, you know, we hope it's marriage,

But yet the femme de chambre doubts. She looked so pensive when we met her,

Poor thing !—and such a charming shawl!-Well !-till we understand it better,

It's quite impossible to call ! “Old Mr. Fund, the London Banker,

Arrived to-day at Premium Court;

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