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Or, pray,

Must I shut up my eyes when I ride in the Park ?

would

you

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 ;
I said who went round to her box from his stall ;
Pray what is your next prohibition to be ?
Il n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie.
"My grandmother would not-" O, would not,

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,

he'd
gone:

and what harm if I had ?
He has known me for years—from a baby of three.
Il n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie.
You

go
to

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.

AN EPITAPH.
LOVELY young lady I mourn in my

rhymes:
She was pleasant, good-natured, and

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.

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MADAME LA MARQUISE.
HE folds of her wine-dark violet dress

Glow over the sofa, fall on fall,
As she sits in the air of her loveliness,

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
Of that room with its porcelain, and pictures,

and flowers, When the dark day's half done, and the snow

Autters white
Past the windows in feathery showers.

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

rose,

was

’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

cry

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.

AVICE.

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HOUGH the voice of modern schools

Has demurred, By the dreamy Asian creed

'Tis averred, That the souls of men, released

F

From their bodies when deceased,
Sometimes enter in a beast,-

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.

When

you
enter in a room,

It is stirred
With the wayward, flashing flight

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.

When

you
called to me my name,

Then again,
When I heard your single cry

In the lane,
All the sound was as the " sweet"
Which the birds to birds repeat
In their thank-song to the heat

After rain.

When you sang the Schwalbenlied,

'Twas absurd, But it seemed no human note

That I heard ; For your strain had all the trills,

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