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And while the music of joy is here,

And the colors of life are gay,

Let us think on those that have loved us dear

The friends who are far away.

Few are the hearts that have proved the truth

Of their early affection's vow;

And let those few, the beloved of youth,
Be dear in their absence now.

Oh, vividly in their faithful breast

Shall the gleam of remembrance play,
Like the lingering light of the crimson West,
When the sunbeam hath passed away!

Soft be the sleep of their pleasant hours,
And calm be the seas they roam!

May the way they travel be strewed with flowers,
Till it bring them in safety home!

And when we whose hearts are o'erflowing thus,
Ourselves may be doomed to stray,
May some kind orison rise for us,
When we shall be far away!

LUCIUS JUNIUS BRUTUS OVER THE BODY OF

LUCRETIA.

JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.

Thus, thus, my friends, fast as our breaking hearts

Permitted utterance, we have told our story;
And now, to say one word of the imposture--
The mask necessity has made me wear!
When the ferocious malice of your king --
King, do I call him! When the monster Tarquin
Slew, as you most of you may well remember,
My father, Marcus, and my elder brother,
Envying at once their virtues and their wealth,
How could I hope a shelter from his power,
But in the false face I have worn so long?

Would you know why I have summon'd you together?
Ask ye what brings me here? Behold this dagger
Clotted with gore! Behold that frozen corse!
See where the lost Lucretia sleeps in death!

She was the mark and model of the time

The mould in which each female face was form'd-
The very shrine and sacristy of virtue!

Fairer than ever was a form created

By youthful fancy when the blood strays wild,
And never-resting thought is all on fire!
The worthiest of the worthy! Not the nymph
Who met old Numa in his hallow'd walks,
And whisper'd in his ear her strains divine,
Can I conceive beyond her. The young choir
'Tis wonderful

Of vestal virgins bent to her.

Amid the darnel, hemlock and base weeds

Which now spring rife from the luxurious compost
Spread o'er the realm, how this sweet lily rose;
How from the shade of those ill neighboring plants
Her father shelter'd her, that not a leaf
Was blighted; but array'd in purest grace,
She bloom'd unsullied beauty. Such perfections
Might have call'd back the torpid breast of age
To long-forgotten rapture; such a mind
Might have abash'd the boldest libertine,
And turn'd desire to reverential love
And holiest affection! Oh, my countrymen,
You all can witness that when she went forth

It was a holiday in Rome; old age

Forgot its crutch, labor its task—all ran;

And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried,

"There, there's Lucretia!" Now, look ye, where she lies!
That beauteous flower-that innocent sweet rose,
Torn up by ruthless violence-gone! gone! gone!
Say, would ye seek instruction? Would ye ask
What ye should do? Ask ye yon conscious walls,
Which saw his poison'd brother !-saw the incest
Committed there, and they will cry-Revenge!
Ask yon deserted street, where Tullia drove

O'er her dead father's corse, 'twill cry-Revenge!
Ask yonder senate-house, whose stones are purple
With human blood, and it will cry-Revenge!
Go to the tomb where lies his murder'd wife,
And the poor queen, who lov'd him as her son;
Their unappeased ghosts will shriek-Revenge!
The temples of the gods—the all-viewing heavens—
The gods themselves-shall justify the cry,
And swell the general sound-Revenge! Revenge!

SEVEN FLATS.

ELEANORE LOUISE HERVEY.

Seven flats! 'Twould make Apollo weep-and Paganini stare!
Can human patience master such a strange, perplexing air?
A strain-to eye and heart. Enough to make one quite a fright,
This poring, poring o'er the page. And Clement comes to-night!
Ah, Clement! If he swept the strings 'twould all be clear as day.
There are some chords-no matter where-his hand knows how to
play,

Chords that will echo when his foot beats time upon the floor-
When Clement's voice has left my ear, there's melody no more.
Seven flats! Was that the study door? A step upon the stair!
The contract will be signed to-night; and Clement will be there.
Be still, my heart! Ah! well I know, while on the page I look
I'm waiting for a signature-that is not in the book!

What if he comes and finds me thus? And all so out of tune: These weak hands trembling on the strings like aspen leaves in

June?

Waiting for him who should be here; him whom the heavens send

To make life one long harmony-Con Moto to the end.

Seven flats! Now wand'ring eyes no more go questing, dazing, dreaming!

Alas! sweet patience is a myth; and diligence but seeming.
The round-eyed minims dazzle me like gold rings in the sun,
Till I only see a little brace that clasps two staves in one!

Is love, then, nought but trifling? And is this to be a wife?
To idle precious hours, and drop the music out of life?

To wait my husband's coming-mute, when I should take my part,
And echo every master chord that beats about his heart?

Seven flats!—Though hard, I'll master it! My Clement shall not

say

His wishes are as straws to me, and duty but a play.

He tells me I am perfect. Nay, then, perfect let me be,

If but perfect in the practice of this horrid key of C!

A week ago he brought the book: called me his "darling Grace!"
And said I was "a Muse." I was but musing on his face;
Thinking how low-voiced womanhood to manhood should be set
Like "music unto noble words" where soul and heart are met.
Seven flats! Yet, courage, little wife! To-night he will be here!
And to-morrow! Ah, to-morrow he will be far more dear!
I shall lean upon his bosom-in that glad, glad morning's gleam,
And he playing on my heartstrings like the music of a dream!

THE OLD HOSTLER'S EXPERIENCE.

From Scribner's Monthly.

I gits up heah-like good ol' Paul,
Obed'ent to de Mahs'r's call-
To tell my 'sperunce, tell it all!

Ol' Shame's put up;

An' I's led Glory out de stall,
To win de cup.

Den, all you sinnahs, cl'ar de track!
I's mounted on ol' Glory's back;
Her hufs is gwine ta-click-ta-clack,
Dat's how dey's gwine!

An' Satan's rattlin', shacklin' hack
Is lef behin'.

Ah, Christuns; in my foolish days
I rid de debbil's blooded bays;

IRWIN RUSSELL.

Persumpchus Pride, an' Worl❜ly Ways,
An' made 'em lope;

But now I's turned 'em out to graze

Widout a rope.

Yah! Yah! Oh! how I used to. Well,

De 'ticlars 'taint no use to tell,

But oncet I rid de road to hell

Wid nar a bit,

An' went two-forty on de shell
Toward de pit.

Like Balaam, when he rid de ass,
I 'sisted on a-trablin' fas'-

But 'twas a pace 'at c'u'dn't las',
An' I got th❜owed;

I cotch Religion, trottin' pas',
An' back I goed.

An' now I simply 'vises you-
You deblish boys I's talkin' to-
Don't nebber hab a thing to do
Wid Satan's hosses;

Dey'll buck an' fling you in de sloo,
Fus' one you crosses.

But git Religion well in han'
An' ride her like a little man-
Dere ain't no hoss in all de lan'

Kin run agin her

An' you'll come by de jedges' stan'
A easy winner.

ZULEIKA.

From the Bride of Abydos.

Fair as the first that fell of womankind,

LORD BYRON.

When on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling, Whose image then was stamped upon her mind

But once beguiled-and ever more beguiling;

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