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STORY OF A FAWN.*

In their last sleep. The dead reign there

alone:

So shalt thou rest. And what if thou with- DOWN from a mountain's craggy

draw

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brow

His homeward way a hunter took By a path that wound to the vales below

At the side of a leaping brook.
Long and sore had his journey been,
By the dust that clung to his forest-green,
By the stains on his broidered moccasin ;

And over his shoulder his rifle hung,
And pouch and horn at his girdle swung.

The eve crept westward; soft and pale
The sunset poured its rosy flood,
Slanting over the wooded vale;
And the weary hunter stood
Looking down on his cot below,

Watching his children there at play, Watching the swing on the chestnut bough Flit to and fro through the twilight gray Till the dove's nest rocked on its quivering spray.

Faint and far through the forest wide Came a hunter's voice and a hound's deep cry;

Silence, that slept in the rocky dell,

So live that when thy summons comes to Scarcely waked as her sentinel

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Challenged the sound from the mountain-side. Over the valleys the echo died,

And a doe sprang lightly by

And cleared the path, and panting stood With her trembling fawn by the leaping flood.

She spanned the torrent at a bound,

And swiftly onward, winged by fear, Fled as the cry of a deep-mouthed hound Fell louder on her ear;

* A true narrative.

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to mourn;

And over the pathway the brown fawn Oh, soothe him whose pleasures like thine

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And naught but the nightingale's song in the I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for

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For morn is approaching your charms to re

store,

THE FLOWER OF LOVE.

Perfumed with fresh fragrance and glittering THE Tulip called to the Eglantine :

with dew.

Nor yet for the for the ravage of winter I mourn : Kind Nature the embryo blossom will

save;

Good neighbor, I hope you see

How the throngs that visit the garden come

To pay their respects to me;
The florist admires my elegant robe

And praises its rainbow ray,

But when shall spring visit the mouldering Till it seems as if through his raptured eyes

urn?

Oh, when shall it dawn on the night of the

grave?

He was gazing his soul away.'

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may be so," said the Eglantine: In a humble nook I dwell,

"Twas thus, by the glare of false science And what is passing among the great

I cannot know so well;

betrayedThat leads to bewilder and dazzles to But they speak of me as the flower of love,

blind

My thoughts wont to roam from shade on

ward to shade,

Destruction before me and sorrow behind. Oh pity, great Father of light,' then I cried,

Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee;

Lo! humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride: From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free.'

"And darkness and doubt are now flying

away;

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn.
So breaks on the traveller faint and astray
The bright and the balmy effulgence of

morn.

See Truth, Love and Mercy in triumph descending,

And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom! On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending,

And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.'

JAMES BEATTIE.

And that low-whispered name

Is dearer to me and my infant buds Than the loudest breath of fame."

LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

LOVE FOR LOVE.

I NE'ER could

NE'ER could any lustre see

In eyes that would not look on me; I ne'er saw nectar on a lip

But where my own did hope to sip.
Has the maid who seeks my heart
Cheeks of rose untouched by art?
I will own the color true
When yielding blushes aid their hue.

Is her hand so soft and pure?
I must press it to be sure;
Nor can I be certain then
Till it, grateful, press again.
Must I, with attentive eye,
Watch her heaving bosom sigh?
I will do so when I see
That heaving bosom sigh for me.

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

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Once actress of the very highest fame,

All Paris doted on each song she sung.

What wreathèd crowns for her the arts have made,

And what magnificence her mansion showed!

There crystals, bronzes, columns, were displayed,

All noble gifts by love on love bestowed.

Then at her feasts how many poet-guests

Faithful to her prosperity you'd see! Thus every palace has its swallows' nests. Friends, shall we not bestow our charity?

But-sad reverse-one day's disease sufficed

To quench those eyes, that seraph voice to steal;

Now, all alone, forgotten and despised,

For twenty weary years I've seen her

kneel.

No hand e'er better knew to lavish gold,

Kindly to give, ungrudgingly and free,

By turns to laughter moved or lost in Than that same hand she now for alms doth

tears,

Her beauty fired our youth to ecstacy.

What love-dreams, too, she caused in former

years!

hold.

Friends, shall we not bestow our charity?

Friends, shall we not bestow our charity? The chill increases doubly while we stand;

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prayers,

This hand would lead thee, listen! A deep
vale

Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world,
Near a clear lake margined by fruits of gold
And whispering myrtles, glassing softest
skies,

And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth
I' the midst of roses.

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EDWARD LYTTON BULWER.

LYING.

DO confess, in many a sigh,

My lips have breathed you many a lie;
And who, with such delights in view,
Would lose them for a lie or two?

Nay! Look not thus, with brow reproving;
Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving.

As cloudless, save with rare and roseate If half we tell the girls were true,

shadows,

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If half we swear to think and do.

Were aught but lying's bright illusion,
This world would be in strange confusion.
If ladies' eyes were every one,

As lovers swear, a radiant sun,
Astronomy must leave the skies
To learn her lore in ladies' eyes.

We'd sit beneath the arching vines and Oh no! believe me, lovely girl,

wonder

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When Nature turns your teeth to pearl,
Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire,
Your amber locks to golden wire,
Then-only then-can Heaven decree
That should live for only me,

you

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