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Must I shut up my eyes when I ride in the Park ?
like me to ride after dark ? If not, Mr. Prim, I shall
say Il n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie.
what I see,
What harm am I speaking, you stupid Old Nurse? I'm sure papa’s newspaper tells us much worse, He's a clergyman, too, are you stricter than he ? Il n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie.
I knew who it was, and I said so, that's all ;
indeed ? Just read Horace Walpole - Yes, Sir, I do read. Besides, what's my grandmother's buckram to me? Il n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie. “ I said it before that old roué, Lord Gadde ;" That's a story,
and what harm if I had ?
your Club (and this makes me so wild), There you smoke, and you slander man, woman,
and child ; But I'm not to know there's such people as sheIl n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie. It's all my own fault; the Academy, Sir, You whispered to Philip, “No, no, it's not her, Sir Edwin would hardly”—I heard, mon ami ; Il n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie.
Well, there, I'm quite sorry; now, stop looking
haughty, Or must I kneel down on my knees, and say,
“ naughty?” There! Get me a peach, and I wish you'd agree Il n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie.
CHARLES SHIRLEY BROOKS.
civil sometimes. Her figure was good : she had very fine
eyes, And her talk was a mixture of foolish and wise. Her adorers were many, and one of them said, “She waltzed rather well! it's a pity she's dead !"
GEORGE JOHN CAYLEY.
MADAME LA MARQUISE.
Glow over the sofa, fall on fall,
With a smile for each and for all.
Half of her exquisite face in the shade,
Which o'er it the screen in her soft hand Alings ; Through the gloom glows her hair in its odorous
braid ; In the firelight are sparkling her rings. As she leans,—the slow smile half shut up in her
eyes Beams the sleepy, long, silk-soft lashes beneath: Through her crimson lips, stirred by her faint
replies, Breaks one gleam of her pearl-white teeth.
As she leans, where your eye, by her beauty
subdued, Droops-from under warm fringes of broidery
white, The slightest of feet, silken slippered, protrude
For one moment, then slip out of sight. As I bend o'er her bosom to tell her the news, The faint scent of her hair, the approach of her
cheek, The vague warmth of her breath, all my senses
suffuse With herself; and I tremble to speak.
So she sits in the curtained luxurious light
and flowers, When the dark day's half done, and the snow
All without is so cold,—'neath the low, leaden
sky! Down the bald, empty street, like a ghost, the
gendarme Stalks surly; a distant carriage hums by ;
All within is so bright and so warm !
But she drives after noon ;-then's the time to
behold her, With her fair face, half hid, like a ripe peeping
’Neath the veil,—o'er the velvets and furs which
enfold her,Leaning back with a queenly repose. As she glides up the sunlight, you'd say
she made To loll back in a carriage all day with a smile ; And at dusk, on a sofa, to lean in the shade
Of soft lamps, and be woo'd for a while. Could we find out her heart through that velvet
and lace ? Canit beat without ruffling her sumptuous dress? She will show us her shoulder, her bosom, her face;
But what the heart's like, we must guess. With live women and men to be found in the
world(Live with sorrow and sin- live with pain and
with passion) Who could live with a doll, though its locks
should be curled, And its petticoats trimmed in the fashion ? 'Tis so fair ! Would my bite, if I bit it draw blood ? Will it
if I hurt it? or scold if I kiss ? Is it made, with its beauty, of wax or of wood ? Is it worth while to guess at all this?
ROBERT, LORD LYTTON.
HOUGH the voice of modern schools
Has demurred, By the dreamy Asian creed
'Tis averred, That the souls of men, released
From their bodies when deceased,
Or a bird.
I have watched you long, Avice,
Watched you so, I have found your secret out;
And I know That the restless ribboned things Where your slope of shoulder springs, Are but undeveloped wings
That will grow.
It is stirred
Of a bird ; And you speak---and bring with you Leaf and sun-ray, bud and blue, And the wind-breath and the dew
At a word.
In the lane,
When you sang the Schwalbenlied,
'Twas absurd, But it seemed no human note
That I heard ; For your strain had all the trills,