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And if ye don't relent, why I

Believe you will me kill ;
For passion must have vent, and I

Will kill myself I will.”

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'Twas thus, when love had made me mad

For Fanny Willoughby,
I told my tale, half gay, half sad,

To Fanny Willoughby ;
And Fanny looked as maiden would

When love her heart did burn,
And Fanny sighed as maiden should,

And murmured a return.

And so I wooed Fan Willoughby

A maiden like a dove,
And so I won Fan Willoughby-

The maiden of my love;
And though sad years have passed since that,

And she is in the sky, I never, never can forget

Sweet Fanny Willoughby.

I'LL TRY MY LUCK AGAIN.

BY H. F. HARRINGTON.

Why should we grieve when trouble lowers,

And steep our days in wo?
Oh rather gaily pass life's hours,

In pleasure as they flow!
Oh not one tear shall dim my eye,

Though life be fraught with pain!
I'll bid the past a kind “ Good-by!"

And try my luck again!

I'll court dame Fortune's soft caress,

Each flattering lure display ; And if my votive prayer she bless,

I'll dance life's hours away.
But if she do not smile on me,

And all my prayers are vain-
I'll laugh and quaff in merry glee,

And-try my luck again!

I'll seek a friend where honour glows

Unswayed by falsehood's wile, To cheer my heart when damped by woes,

Smile with me when I smile;
But if he prove a heartless one-

A scoffer at my pain,
I'll bid the treacherous knave begone,

And-try my luck again!

I'll pay my vows at beauty's shrine,

Where sparkling black eyes gleam; And if propitious hope be mine,

I'll revel in love's dream.'
But if she frown, my pretty belle,

And all my vows disdain,
I'll, smiling, take my last farewell,-

And-try my luck again!

And when death sets his seal on me,

And moors my shattered bark, And fate is struggling to set free

Life's faintly lingering spark-. Oh not one tear shall dim my eye,

That life is on the wane, That I must bid the world “Good-by!"

Nor-try my luck again!

NEW ENGLAND.

BY 8. G. BULFINCH.

HOME of the good, the brave, the wise,

Bold youth and beauty bright, The sun, as on his course he hies,

Beholds no lovelier sight.

Italia's vales with perfume glow

From every flowery tree,
But ne'er those lovely valleys know

The breath of Liberty.

Bright beams the sun on Syria's plains,

Where ancient prophets trod, And held, in Nature's forest fanes,

High converse with their God.
But holier are the hills that bind

Thy stormy ocean shore,
For there the sacred human mind

Knows its own strength once more.

There, in the cottage and the hall,

As bursts the morning ray,
The hymn of praise ascends from all

To him who gives the day.
There, as the evening sun declines,

They join in harmless glee;
On all the beam of pleasure shines,

For all alike are free,

SHE NEVER SMILED AGAIN.

BY J. JONES.

O, SHE was gay in youth's bright morn,

And beautiful when young,
And midst life's roses knew no thorn

'Till her sweet breast was stung: The plighted one forgot his vow

She said it gave no pain-
But a sadness settled on her brow-

She never smiled again!

She spoke not of the cruel one,

And sought the merry throng;
But changed was her once silver tone,

And mournful her low song.
She glittered next with jewels bright,

And danced to merry strain;
But the stricken one knew no delight

She never smiled again.

She strayed along the sedgy brook,

And marked the blue-bird's songBut neither flower, bird, nor brook,

Could cheat her mem'ry long. Her thoughts flew back to moments past,

And then she sighed in vain ; Her drooping heart was broke at last

She never smiled again!

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