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Not braver he that leaps the wall
By level musket-flashes litten,

Than I, who stepped before them all,
Who longed to see me get the mitten.

But no; she blushed, and took my arm!

We let the old folks have the highway, And started toward the Maple Farm

Along a kind of lover's by-way.

I can't remember what we said,

T was nothing worth a song or story;

Yet that rude path by which we sped
Seemed all transformed and in a glory.

The snow was crisp beneath our feet.
The moon was full, the fields were gleaming,

By hood and tippet sheltered sweet
Her face with youth and health was beaming.

The little hand outside her muff—
O sculptor, if you could but mold it!

So lightly touched my jacket-cuff,
To keep it warm I had to hold it.

To have her with me there alone—
T was love and fear and triumph blended.

At last we reached the foot-worn stone
Where that delicious journey ended.

The old folks, too, were almost home;

Her dimpled hand the latches Angered, We heard the voices nearer come,

Yet on the doorstep still we lingered.

She shook her ringlets from her hood,
And with a "Thank you, Ned," dissembled,

But yet I knew she understood
With what a daring wish I trembled.

A cloud passed kindly overheard,

The moon was slyly peeping through it,

Yet hid its face, as if it said,

"Come, now or never! doit! doit!"

My lips till then had only known

The kiss of mother and of sister, But somehow, full upon her own

Sweet, rosy, darling mouth—I kissed her!

Perhaps "t was boyish love, yet still,

O listless woman, weary lover!
To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill

I'd give— But who can live youth over?

Edmund Clarence Stedman.


cND on her lover's arm she leant,

J And round her waist she felt it fold;

» And far across the hills they went

In that new world which is the old. Across the hills, and far away

Beyond their utmost purple rim, And deep into the dying day,

The happy princess followed him.

"I'd sleep another hundred years,

O love, for such another kiss;" "O wake forever, love," she hears,

"O love, 't was such as this and this;" And o'er them many a sliding star.

And many a merry wind was borne. And streamed through many a golden bar,

The twilight melted into morn.

"O eyes long laid in happy sleep!"

"O happy sleep, that lightly lied!" "O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep!"

"O love, thy kiss would wake the dead!" And o'er them many a flowing range

Of vapor buoyed the crescent bark; And, rapt through many a rosy change,

The twilight died into the dark.

A hundred summers! can it be?

And whither goest thou, tell me where? "O seek my father's court with me,

For there are greater wonders there." And o'er the hills, and far away

Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day,

Through all the world she followed him.

Alfred Tennyson.


■ IS sweet to hear.

At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep, The song and oar of Adria's gondolier;

By distance mellowed, o'er the waters sweep. 'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear,

Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep From leaf to leaf; 'tis sw-eet to view on higli The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.

"Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark
Bay deep-ir>outhed welcome as we draw near home;

'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark
Our coming, and look brighter when we come.

'Tis sweet to be awakened by the lark,
Or lulled by falling waters; sweet the hum

Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds,

The lisp of children, and their earliest words.

Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes

In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth,
Purple and gushing; sweet are our escapes

From civic revelry to rural mirth;
Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps;

Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth;
Sweet is revenge, especially to women,
Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen.

* * * * *

Tls sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels,
By blood or ink; 'tis sweet to put an end

To strife; 'tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels,
Particularly with a tiresome friend;

Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels;

Dear is the helpless creature we defend
Against the world; and dear the school-boy spot
We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot.

But sweeter still than this, than these, than all,
Is first and passionate love—it stands alone,

Like Adam's recollection of his fall;
The tree of knowledge has been plucked—all's

And life yields nothing further to recall

Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown, No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven Fire which Prometheus filched for us from heaven.

Lord Byron.


pIERE is no time like the old time, when you

and I were young, 'When the buds of April blossomed, and the birds

of springtime sung! The garden's brightest glories by summer suns are nursed,

But, oh, the sweet, sweet violets, the flowers that opened first!

There is no place like the old place where you and I were born!

Where we lifted first our eyelids on the splendors of the morn,

From the milk-white breast that warmed us, from the

clinging arms that bore, Where the dear eyes glistened o'er us that will look

an ns no more!

There is no friend like the old friend who has shared

our morning days, No greeting like his welcome, no homage like his


Fame is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown of gold,

But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold.

There is no love like the old love that we courted in our pride;

Though our leaves are falling, falling, and we're

fading side by side. There are blossoms all around us with the colors of

our dawn,

And we live in borrowed sunshine when the light of day is gone.

There are no times like the old times—they shall never be forgot!

There is no place like the old place—keep green the

dear old spot! There are no friends like our old friends—may Heaven

prolong their lives! There are no loves like our old loves—God bless our

loving wives!


MARY, at thy window be! It is the wished, the trysted hour! J/Those smiles and glances let me see That make the miser's treasure poor; jj^ How blithely wad I bide the stoure, & A weary slave frae sun to sun, $ Could I the rich reward secure— ^ The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen when to the trembling string
The dance gaed through the lighted ha',

To thee my fancy took its wing—
I sat, but neither heard nor saw;

Though this was fair, and that was braw,
And you the toast of a' the town,

I sighed, and said amang them 'a,
"Ye are na Mary Morison."

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace

Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee? Or canst thou break that heart of his,

YVhase only faut is loving thee? If love for love thou wilt na gie,

At least be pity to me shown; A thought ungentle eanna be

The thought o' Mary Morison.

Robert Burns.

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J>fWAY! let naught to love displeasing.
My Wiuifreda, move your care:
> Let naught delav the heavenly blessing.
Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear.

What though no grants of royal donors
With pompous titles grace our blood.

We '11 shine in more substantial honors.
And. to be noble, we "11 be good.

Our name, while virtue thus we tender
Will sweetly sound where 'er 'tis spoke;

And all the great ones, they shall wonder How they respect such little folk.

What though, from fortune's lavish bounty.

No mighty treasures we possess;
We "11 find, within our pittance, plenty.

And be content without excess.

Still shall each kind returning season

Sufficient for our wishes give; For we will live a life of reason,

And that's the only life to live.

Through youth and age. in love excelling.

We ':1 hand in hand together tread; Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling.

And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed.

How should I love the pretty creatures,
While round my knees they fondly clung!

To see them look their mother's features,
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue!

And when with envy time transported

Shall think to rob us of our joys, You '11 in your girls again be courted,

And I '11 go wooing in my boys.

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