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 brow His homeward way a hunter took By a path that wound to the vales below At the side of a leaping brook. And over his shoulder his rifle hung, The eve crept westward; soft and pale 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 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. to mourn; And over the pathway the brown fawn Oh, soothe him whose pleasures like thine And naught but the nightingale's song in the I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for 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; 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.' 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. 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. Is her hand so soft and pure? RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 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; prayers, This hand would lead thee, listen! A deep Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world, And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth EDWARD LYTTON BULWER. LYING. DO confess, in many a sigh, My lips have breathed you many a lie; Nay! Look not thus, with brow reproving; As cloudless, save with rare and roseate If half we tell the girls were true, shadows, If half we swear to think and do. Were aught but lying's bright illusion, As lovers swear, a radiant sun, We'd sit beneath the arching vines and Oh no! believe me, lovely girl, wonder When Nature turns your teeth to pearl, you |