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From The Donstep.

A cloud passed midly overhead,

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вити

The moon was slyly peeping through it,
hid its face

as if it said,

Come, now on liever! do it! do it!

My lips tito Her had only known

Вих

the hiss of mother and of sider,
Bus comehow, full upon her own
Sweet, rosy, Daching month. _ Thissed her!

Verhafs tious boyish love, yet stilo,

O listless woman, weaky lover
once more that fresh, wied thrill
_ her who can live youth over?

To feel

Yel give

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Her face with youth and health was beam- Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still, ing.

The little hand outside her muff

O sculptor, if you could but mould it!
So lightly touched my jacket-cuff,
To keep it warm I had to hold it.

To have her with me there alone-
"Twas love and fear and triumph blended:
At last we reached the foot-worn stone
Where that delicious journey ended.

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 overhead,
The moon was slyly peeping through it,
Yet hid its face, as if it said,

"Come, now or never, do it, do it!"

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!

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.

MUSIC AND LOVE.

(From Twelfth Night, Act I., Scene 1.)

F music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.—
That strain again;—it had a dying fall:
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south,
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing, and giving odour.-Enough; no

more;

'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.

O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou!
That notwithstanding thy capacity
Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there,
Of what validity and pitch soever,
But falls into abatement and low price,
Even in a minute! so full of shapes is fancy,
That it alone is high-fantastical.

WILLIAM SHAKSPERE.

FROM "TLE SONG OF THE CAMP."

They sang of love, and not of fame ;
Forgot was Britain's glory:

Each heart recalled a

different name, But all sang " Annie Lawrie"!

Bayard Taylory

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It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!—
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou her maid art far more fair than she:
Be not her maid, since she is envious;
Her vestal livery is but sick and green,
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.-
It is my lady; O, it is my love!

O, that she knew she were!

She speaks, yet she says nothing; what of

that?

Her eye discourses, I will answer it.—
I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks:
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in the spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her
head?

The brightness of her cheek would shame

those stars,

As daylight doth a lamp; her eye in heaven,

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