Perchance the beverage flows o'er,
And leaves a stain there is no aid for,
On carpet, dress, or chair. Once more
We feel that "Children must be paid for."

Presiding at the festive board,

With many faces laughing round,
Dull melancholy is ignored

While mirth and jollity abound:

We see our table amply spread

With knives and forks a dozen laid for;
Then pause to think:-"How are they fed ?"
Yes, "Children must indeed be paid for!"

THE MUSQUITO.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Fair insect! that, with thread-like legs spread out,

And blood-extracting bill, and filmy wing, Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail'st about,

In pitiless ears full many a plaintive thing, And tell how little our large veins should bleed, Would we but yield them to thy bitter need.

Unwillingly, I own, and, what is

worse,
Full angrily men hearken to thy plaint;
Thou gettest many a brush and many a curse,

For saying thou art gaunt, and starved, and faint:
Even the old beggar, while he asks for food,
Would kill thee, hapless stranger, if he could.

I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween,
Has not the honor of so proud a birth—
Thou com'st from Jersey meadows, fresh and green,
The offspring of the gods, though born on earth;
For Titan was thy sire, and fair was she,
The ocean-nymph that nursed thy infancy.

Beneath the rushes was thy cradle swung,

And when, at length, thy gauzy wings grew strong, Abroad to gentle airs their folds were flung,

Rose in the sky, and bore thee soft along;

The south wind breathed to waft thee on thy way,
And danced and shone beneath the billowy bay.

Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence

Came the deep murmur of its throng of men, And as its grateful odors met thy sense,

They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen. Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight.

At length thy pinion fluttered in Broadway

Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray

Shone through the snowy vails like stars through mist; And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin, Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin.

Sure these were sights to tempt an anchorite!
What! do I hear thy slender voice complain?
Thou wailest when I talk of beauty's light,
As if it brought the memory of pain:
Thou art a wayward being-well--come near,
And pour thy tale of sorrow in my ear.

What say'st thou, slanderer!-rouge makes thee sick?
And China Bloom at best is sorry food?

And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick,

Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood?
Go! 't was a just reward that met thy crime-
But shun the sacrilege another time.

That bloom was made to look at-not to touch;
To worship-not approach-that radiant white;
And well might sudden vengeance light on such

As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite.
Thou should'st have gazed at distance, and admired—
Murmured thy admiration, and retired.

Thou 'rt welcome to the town-but why come here
To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee?

Alas! the little blood I have is dear,

And thin will be the banquet drawn from me.

Look round-the pale-eyed sisters in my cell,
Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell.

Try some plump alderman, and suck the blood
Enriched by generous wine and costly meat;
On well-filled skins, sleek as thy native mud,

Fix thy light pump, and press thy freckled feet:
Go to the men for whom, in ocean's halls,
The oyster breeds, and the green turtle sprawls.

There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows,
To fill the swelling veins for thee, and now
The ruddy cheek, and now the ruddier nose

Shall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the brow;
And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings,
No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings.

TO THE LADY IN THE CHEMISETTE WITH BLACK BUTTONS.

N. P. WILLIS,

I KNOW not who thou art, thou lovely one,
Thine eyes were drooped, thy lips half sorrowful,
Yet didst thou eloquently smile on me,
While handing up thy sixpence through the hole
Of that o'er-freighted omnibus !-ah, me !—
The world is full of meetings such as this;
A thrill-a voiceless challenge and reply,
And sudden partings after-we may pass,
And know not of each other's nearness now,
Thou in the Knickerbocker line, and I
Lone in the Waverley! Oh! life of pain;
And even should I pass where thou dost dwell-
Nay, see thee in the basement taking tea-
So cold is this inexorable world,

I must glide on, I dare not feast mine eye,
I dare not make articulate my love,
Nor o'er the iron rails that hem thee in
Venture to throw to thee my innocent card,
Not knowing thy papa.

Hast thou papa?

Is thy progenitor alive, fair girl?

And what doth he for lucre? Lo again!
A shadow o'er the face of this fair dream!
For thou may'st be as beautiful as Love
Can make thee, and the ministering hands
Of milliners, incapable of more,
Be lifted at thy shapeliness and air,
And still 'twixt me and thee, invisibly,
May rise a wall of adamant. My breath
Upon my pale lip freezes as I name
Manhattan's orient verge, and eke the west
In its far down extremity. Thy sire
May be the signer of a temperance pledge,
And clad all decently may walk the earth-
Nay-may be number'd with that blessed few
Who never ask for discount-yet, alas!

If, homeward wending from his daily cares,

He go by Murphy's Line, thence eastward tendingOr westward from the Line of Kipp & Brown

My vision is departed! Harshly falls

The doom upon the ear, "She's not genteel!"

And pitiless is woman who doth keep

Of "good society" the golden key!

And gentlemen are bound, as are the stars,
To stoop not after rising!

But farewell,

And I shall look for thee in streets where dwell
The passengers by Broadway Lines alone!
And if my dreams be true, and thou, indeed,
Art only not more lovely than genteel-
Then, lady of the snow-white chemisette,
The heart which vent'rously cross'd o'er to thee
Upon that bridge of sixpence, may remain—
And, with up-town devotedness and truth,
My love shall hover round thee!

COME OUT, LOVE.

N. P. WILLIS. Argument. The poet starts from the Bowling Green to take his sweetheart up to Thompson's for an ice, or (if she is inclined for more) ices. He confines his muse to matters which any every-day man and young woman may see in taking the same promenade for the same innocent refreshment.

COME out, love-the night is enchanting!
The moon hangs just over Broadway;
The stars are all lighted and panting-
(Hot weather up there, I dare say!)
'Tis seldom that "coolness" entices,

And love is no better for chilling-
But come up to Thompson's for ices,
And cool your warm heart for a shilling!

What perfume comes balmily o'er us?
Mint juleps from City Hotel!

A loafer is smoking before us-
(A nasty cigar, by the smell!)
O Woman! thou secret past knowing!
Like lilacs that grow by the wall,
You breathe every air that is going,
Yet gather but sweetness from all!

On, on! by St. Paul's, and the Astor!
Religion seems very ill-plann'd!
For one day we list to the pastor,

For six days we list to the band!
The sermon may dwell on the future,
The organ your pulses may calm—
When-pest!-that remember'd cachucha
Upsets both the sermon and psalm!

Oh, pity the love that must utter

While goes a swift omnibus by!

(Though sweet is I scream* when the flutter
Of fans shows thermometers high)—

But if what I bawl, or I mutter,

Falls into your ear but to die,

Oh, the dew that falls into the gutter
Is not more unhappy than I!

Query-Should this be Ice cream, or I scream ?-Printer's Devil.