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Of till the agonies in life, that which is most poignant and harrowing—that which, for the time, annihilates reason, and leaves our whole organization one lacerated, mangled heart — is the conviction that we have been deceived where we placed all the trust of love. TO AN ABSENT WIFE.


IjjfpDRST time he kissed me, he but only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write; And ever since it grew more clean and white— "k Slow to world-greetings—quick with its "O, f list,"

w When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst I could not wear here, plainer to my sight Thau that first kiss. The second passed in height


The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed,

Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed!

That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown,

With sanctifying sweetness did precede.

The third upon my lips was folded down

In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed,

I have been proud and said, "My love, my own."

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.


S MORN; the sea-breeze seems to bring
Joy, health, and freshness on its wing;
Bright flowers, tome all strange and new,
Are glittering in the early dew;
And perfumes rise from many a grove
As incense to the clouds that move
Like spirits o'er yon welkin clear;
But I am sad—thou art not here.

'Tis noon; a calm unbroken sleep
Is on the blue waves of the deep;
A soft haze, like a fairy dream,
Is floating over hill and stream;
And many a broad magnolia flower
Within its shadowy woodland bower
Is gleaming like a lovely star;
But I am sad—thou art afar.

'Tis eve; on earth the sunset skies
Are painting their own Eden dyes;
The stars come down, and trembling glow
Like blossoms in the waves below;

And, like some unseen sprite, the breeze
Seems lingering 'mid the orange-trees,
Breathing in music round the spot;
But I am sad — I see thee not.

'Tis midnight; with a. soothing spell
The far tones of the ocean swell,
Soft as a mother's cadence mild,
Low bending o'er her sleeping child;
And on each wandering breeze are heard
The rich notes of the mocking-bird
In many a wild and wondrous lay;
But I am sad — thou art away.

I sink in dreams, low, sweet, and clear;
Thy own dear voice is in my ear;
Around my cheek thy tresses twine,
Thy own loved hand is clasped in mine,
Thy own soft lip to mine is pressed,
Thy head is pillowed on my breast.
Oh! I have all my heart holds dear;
And I am happy — thou art here.

George D. Prentice.


Tf\ IK sun has gane down o'er the lofty Ben Lomond, JSj And left the red clouds to preside o'er the rrj scene,

Wg While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloamin", J To muse on sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dnmblane.

How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom,
And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green;

Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,
Is lovely young Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane.

She's ony, and blithe as she's bonnie —
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain;

And far be the villain, divested of feeling,
Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet Flower o'

Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to thee'ening!—
Thou 'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen;

Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,
Is charming young Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane.

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie!

The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie

Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane.

Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandenr,
Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain,

And recken as naething the height o' its splendor,
H wanting sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane.

Robert Tannahill.


|OME into the garden, Maud,

For the black bat, night, has flown!
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.

For a breeze of morning moves,

And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves,

On a bed of daffodil sky,—
To faint in the light of the sun that she loves,

To laint id its light, and to die.

All night have the roses heard

The flute, violin, bassoon;
All night has the casement jessamine stirred

To the dancers dancing iii tune,—
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,

And a hush with the setting moon.

I said to the lily, "There is but one

With whom she has heart to be gay. "When will the dancers leave her alone?

She is weary of dance and play."
Now half to the setting moon are gone,

And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone

The last wheel echoes away.

I said to the rose, "The brief night goes

In babble and revel and wine,
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those

For one that will never be thine!
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose

"For ever and ever mine!"

And the soul of the rose went into my blood,

As the music clashed in the hall; And long by the garden lake I stood,

For I heard your rivulet fall From the lake to the meadow, and on to the wood,

Our wood, that is dearer than all;

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs,

He sets the jewel-print of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes,

To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.

The slender acacia would not shake

One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,

Knowing your promise to me; The lilies and roses were all awake,

They sighed for the dawn and thee.

Queen rose of the rose-bud garden of girls,
Come hither! the dances are done;

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;

Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun.

There has fallen a splendid tear

From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear;

She is coming, my life, my fate! The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"

And the white rose weeps, "She is late;" The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"

And the lily whispers, "I wait."

She is coming, my own, my sweet!

Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,

Were it earth in an earthly bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,

Had I lain for a ce&tury dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,

And blossom in purple and red.

Alfred Tenittson.


j^HEN love with unconfln6d wings

Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at my grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair,

And fettered with her eye. The birds that wanton in the air

Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round.

With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses crowned,

Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep,

When healths and draughts go free, Fishes that tipple in the deep

Know no such liberty.

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Theke has nearly always been a good wife behind every great man, and there is a good deal of truth in the saying that a man can be no greater than his wife will let him.

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