LINES WRITTEN TO HIS WIFE, WHILE ON A VISIT TO UPPER INDIA.

If thou wert by my side, my love,
How fast would evening fail
In green Bengala's palmy grove,

Listening the nightingale!

If thou, my love, wert by my side,
My babies at my knee,

How gaily would our pinnace glide
O'er Gunga's mimic sea!

I miss thee at the dawning gray,
When, on our deck reclined,
In careless ease my limbs I lay,
And woo the cooler wind.

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream
My twilight steps I guide;
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam
I miss thee from my side.

I spread my books, my pencil try,
The lingering noon to cheer,
But miss thy kind, approving eye,
Thy meek, attentive ear.

But when of morn and eve the star
Beholds me on my knee,

I feel, though thou art distant far,
Thy prayers ascend for me.

Then on then on! where duty leads,
My course be onward still-
On broad Hindostan's sultry meads,
O'er black Almorah's hill.

That course nor Delhi's kingly gates
Nor mild Malwah detain;
For sweet the bliss us both awaits
By yonder western main.

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they

say,

Across the dark blue sea;

But never were hearts so light and gay As then shall meet in thee! REGINALD HEBER.

TO MY WIFE.

OH, hadst thou never shared my fate,
More dark that fate would prove:
My heart were truly desolate
Without thy soothing love.

But thou hast suffer'd for my sake,
Whilst this relief I found,
Like fearless lips that strive to take
The poison from a wound.

My fond affection thou hast seen,
Then judge of my regret

To think more happy thou hadst been
If we had never met!

And has that thought been shared by thee?
Ah, no! that smiling cheek
Proves more unchanging love for me
Than labor'd words could speak.

But there are true hearts which the sight
Of sorrow summons forth;
Though known in days of past delight,
We knew not half their worth.

How unlike some who have profess'd
So much in Friendship's name,
Yet calmly pause to think how best
They may evade her claim.

But ah! from them to thee I turn,-
They'd make me loathe mankind;
Far better lessons I may learn

From thy more holy mind.

The love that gives a charm to home
I feel they cannot take:
We'll pray for happier years to come,
For one another's sake..

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

THE WINSOME WEE THING.

SHE is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,

This sweet wee wife o' mine.

I never saw a fairer,

I never lo'ed a dearer;
And neist my heart I'll wear her,
For fear my jewel tine.

She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,

She is a bonnie wee thing,

This sweet wee wife o' mine.

The warld's wrack we share o't, The warstle and the care o't, Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, And think my lot divine.

ROBERT BURNS.

SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.

SHE was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleam'd upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To hunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her, upon nearer view,

A Spirit, yet a Woman too!

Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;

A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature, not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food—
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel light.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

TO MARY.

"THEE, Mary, with this ring I wed"-
So, fourteen years ago, I said.
Behold another ring!—“For what?—
To wed thee o'er again?" Why not?
With that first ring I married youth,
Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth;
Taste long admired, sense long revered,
And all my Molly then appear'd.

If she, by merit since disclosed,
Prove twice the woman I supposed,
I plead that double merit now
To justify a double vow.
Here, then, to-day (with faith as sure,
With ardor as intense, as pure,
As when, amidst the rites divine,
I took thy troth and plighted mine),
To thee, sweet girl, my second ring,
A token and a pledge, I bring:
With this I wed, till death us part,
Thy riper virtues to my heart-
Those virtues which, before untried,
The wife has added to the bride;
Those virtues whose progressive claim,
Endearing wedlock's very name,
My soul enjoys, my song approves,
For conscience' sake as well as love's.
And why? They show me every hour
Honor's high thought, Affection's power,
Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sen-
tence,

And teach me all things-but repentance.

SAMUEL BISHOP.

THE MARINER'S WIFE.

AND are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?

Is this a time to think o' wark?

Ye jauds fling by your wheel!
Is this a time to think o' wark,
When Colin's at the door?
Rax me my cloak, I'll to the quay
And see him come ashore.

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a';

There's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman's awa’.

And gie to me my bigonet,

My bishop's satin gown;
For I maun tell the baillie's wife
That Colin's come to town.
My Turkey slippers maun gae on,
My hose o' pearl blue;
It's a' to pleasure my ain gudeman,
For he's baith leal and true.

Rise up and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the muckle pot;
Gie little Kate her Sunday gown,
And Jock his button coat;

And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;
It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he's been long awa'.

There's twa fat hens upo' the bank

They've fed this month and mair; Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare;

And spread the table neat and clean,
Gar ilka thing look braw;

For wha can tell how Colin fared
When he was far awa'?

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,
His breath like caller air;

His very foot has music in't
As he comes up the stair.
And will I see his face again?

And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet!

Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content,
I hae nae mair to crave:
Could I but live to mak him blest,

I'm blest aboon the lave:
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet.

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a';

There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman's awa'.

JEAN ADAM.

THE EXILE TO HIS WIFE.

COME to me, dearest, I'm lonely without thee,

Day-time and night-time, I'm thinking

about thee;

Night-time and day-time, in dreams I behold thee;

Unwelcome the waking which ceases to

fold thee.

Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten;

Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten;

Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly,

Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy.

Swallows will flit round the desolate ruin, Telling of spring and its joyous renewing, And thoughts of thy love, and its manifold treasure,

Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure.

O Spring of my spirit! O May of my bosom ! Shine out on my soul, till it bourgeon and blossom;

The waste of my life has a rose-root within it,

And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it.

Figure that moves like a song through the

even;

Features lit up by a reflex of heaven; Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother,

Where shadow and sunshine are chasing each other;

Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and simple,

Planting in each rosy cheek a sweet dimple;

Oh, thanks to the Saviour, that even thy seeming

Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming!

You have been glad when you knew I was gladden'd;

Dear, are you sad now to hear I am sadden'd?

Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love,

As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love:

I cannot weep but your tears will be flowing,

You cannot smile but my cheek will be glowing;

I would not die without you at my side,

love;

You will not linger when I shall have died, love.

Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow, Rise on my gloom like the sun of to

morrow;

Strong, swift, and fond as the words which

I speak, love,

With a song on your lip and a smile on

your cheek, love.

My stubbed fingers are stain'd with ink— The badge of the ledger, the mark of trade;

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

WITHOUT AND WITHIN.

I.

THE night is dark, and the winter winds Go stabbing about with their icy spears; The sharp hail rattles against the panes,

And melts on my cheeks like tears.

'Tis a terrible night to be out of doors, But some of us must be, early and late;

In spite of the way it is made.

I wear out my life in the counting-room, Over day-book and cash-book, Bought and Sold;

My brain is dizzy with anxious thought, My skin is as sallow as gold.

How does she keep the roses of youth

Still fresh in her cheeks? My roses are flown.

It lies in a nutshell: why do I ask?
A woman's life is her own.

She sews-a little; makes collars and sleeves;

What I feel to-night in my heart.

No weak complaint of the man I love, No praise of myself or my sisterhood;

small);

Nets silken purses (for me to fill)

Often does nothing at all

But dream in her chamber, holding a flower,

Or reading my letters (she'd better read mej!

Even now, while I am freezing with cold, She is cozily sipping her tea.

If I ever reach home I shall laugh aloud At the sight of a roaring fire once more; She must wait, I think, till I thaw myself, For the usual kiss at the door.

I'll have with my dinner a bottle of port, To warm up my blood and soothe my mind;

Then a little music, for even I

Like music-when I have dined.

I'll smoke a pipe in the easy-chair,
And feel her behind me patting my
head;

Or, drawing the little one on my knee,
Chat till the hour for bed.

II.

Will he never come? I have watch'd for him

Till the misty panes are roughen'd with sleet;

I can see no more: shall I never hear The welcome sound of his feet?

I think of him in the lonesome night, Tramping along with a weary tread, And wish he were here by the cheery fire, Or I were there in his stead.

But grant us weak (as in truth we are In our love for them), they should make us strong;

But do they? Will they? "WOMAN IS WEAK!"

Is the burden still of their song. Wherein am I weaker than Arthur, pray? He has, as he should, a sturdier frame, And he labors early and late for me;

But I-I could do the same.

My hands are willing, my brain is clear,
The world is wide, and the workers few;
But the work of the world belongs to man;
There is nothing for woman to do.

Yes, she has the holy duties of home,
A husband to love, and children to bear;
The softer virtues, the social arts—-

In short, a life without care.

So our masters say. But what do they know

Of our lives and feelings when they are
away?

Our household duties, our petty tasks,
The nothings that waste the day?
Nay, what do they care? 'Tis enough for
them

That their homes are pleasant; they
seek their ease:

mind;

Another, to keep his keys.

But my shadow is dark behind.

In a masculine way, as they love their

wine;