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When with neglect, the lover's bane,
Poor maids rewarded be,

For their love lost; their only gain
Is but a wreath from thee.

And underneath thy cooling shade,
When weary of the light,

The love-spent youth, and love-sick maid,
Come to weep out the night.

LIFE.

By Professor WILSON.

How wild and dim this life appears!
One long, deep, heavy sigh,
When before eyes half closed in tears,
The images of former years
Are faintly gliding by!

And still forgotten while they go!
As on the sea beach, wave on wave
Dissolves at once in snow,

The amber clouds one moment lie,
Then, like a dream, are gone!
Though beautiful the moonbeams play
On the lake's bosom, bright as they,
And the soul intensely loves their stay.
Soon as the radiance melts away,

We scarce believe it shone!
Heaven-airs amid the harp-strings dwell;
And we wish they ne'er may fade:
They cease-and the soul is a silent cell,

Where music never play'd.

Dreams follow dreams through the long night hours,

Each lovelier than the last;

But, ere the breath of morning flowers,

That gorgeous world flies past;

And many a sweet angelic cheek,

Whose smiles of love and fondness speak,

Glides by us on the earth;
While in a day we cannot tell,

Where shone the face we loved so well,
In sadness or in mirth.

THE CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR.

By W. M. THACKERAY.

IN tatter'd old slippers that toast at the bars,
And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars,
Away from the world and its toils and its cares,
I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs.

To mount to this realm is a toil to be sure,
But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure;
And the view I behold on a sunshiny day
Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way.

This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooks,
With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books,
And foolish old odds and foolish old ends,

Crack'd bargains from brokers, ckeap keepsakes from friends.

Old armour, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all crack'd),
Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-back'd;

A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see;

What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me.

No better divan need the Sultan require,
Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire;
And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get
From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet.

That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp;
By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp;
A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn :
'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon.

Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the

chimes,

Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times; As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie

This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.

But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest,
There's one that I love and I cherish the best;
For the finest of couches that's padded with hair
I never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd chair.

'Tis a bandy-legg'd, high shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat,
With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet;
But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there,
I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottom'd chair.

If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms,
A thrill must have pass'd through your wither'd old arms!
I look'd, and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair ;
I wish'd myself turn'd to a cane-bottom'd chair.

It was but a moment she sate in this place,

She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face!
A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair,

And she sate there, and bloom'd in my cane-bottom'd chair.

And so I have valued my chair ever since,

Like the shrine of a saint or the throne of a prince;
Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare,

The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'd chair.

When the candles burn low, and the company's gone,
In the silence of night as I sit here alone-
I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair-
My Fanny I see in my cane-bottom'd chair.

She comes from the past and revisits my room;
She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom;
So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair,
And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair.

Brilliants.

SPRING.

In that sweet season when the Year is green,
And hearts grow merry as spring-groves full of birds,
While life for pleasure ripples as it runs ;

And young Earth putteth forth the lovely things
She hath been dreaming through long winter nights;
Taking the May-tide in a golden swim,

Her blithe heart singing for the flooding cheer;
And field and forest clothed in tender leaf,
Shower after shower, out-smile a livelier green;
With dainty colour the kindling country dawns;
Death lieth low; his hidden footprints bloom;
Upon his grave Life dances all in flowers:
And lying shell-like on our shore o' the world,
Thinking to music played by hidden hands,
We are caught up to listening ear of Heaven,
That leaneth down maternal meek to hear
Our inner murmurs of the eternal sea.

CONFIDENCE.

GERALD MASSEY.

Who poisons confidence, he murders
The future generations.

A CAMP.

COLERIDGE.

The first day when he pitcheth down his tents,
White is their hue, and on his silver crest,

A

snowy feather spangled white he bears,

To signify the mildness of his mind,

That, satiate with spoil, refuseth blood.

But when Aurora mounts the second time,

As red as scarlet is his furniture;

Then must bis kindled wrath be quench'd with blood,

Not sparing any that can manage arms;

But if these threats move not submission,
Black are his colours, black his pavilions;

His spear, his shield, his horse, his armour, plumes,
And petty feathers, menace death and hell;
Without respect of sex, degree, or age,
He razeth all his foes with fire and sword.

MARLOWE.

AMBITION.

I ever thought him so:

A sad wise man, of daring eye, and free,

Yet mystic speech. When ye have laugh'd, I still
Have shudder'd; for his darkling words oft fell
Like oracles, answering with dim response
To my unspoken thoughts, so that my spirit,
Albeit unused to womanish fear, hath quail'd
To hear his voice's deep vibration. Watch him!
Be sure, he is ambitious. Watch him, lords :-
He hath o'erleapt the barrier, poverty;
Hath conquer'd his mean parentage; hath clomb
To decent station, to high letter'd fame ;—
The pontiff's notary, the honour'd friend
Of Petrarch.

Watch him well.

MITFORD.

WARNING.

We must not give implicit credence
To every warning voice that makes itself
Be listen'd to in the heart.

COLERIDGE.

THE TIME TO DIE

Ah! that is sad; and yet perhaps 'tis better
That she should die with all the sunshine on her,
And all the benedictions of the morning;

Before this affluence of golden light

Shall fall into a cold and clouded grey,
Then into darkness.

LONGFELLOW.

A CURSE.

The plagues of Egypt, and the curse of heaven,
Earth's barrenness, and all men's hatred,
Inflict upon them, thou great Prima Mater,
And here upon my knees, striking the earth,
I ban their souls to everlasting pains
And extreme tortures of the fiery deep,
That thus have dealt with me in my distress.

MARLOWE.

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