THE CHESS-BOARD.

My little love, do you remember,
Ere we were grown so sadly wise,
Those evenings in the bleak December,
Curtain'd warm from the snowy weather,
When you and I play'd chess together,
Checkmated by each other's eyes?
Ah, still I see your soft white hand
Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight.
Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand:
The double Castles guard the wings:
The Bishop, bent on distant things,
Moves sidling through the fight.

Our fingers touch; our glances meet, And falter; falls your golden hair Against my cheek; your bosom sweet Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen Rides slow her soldiery all between,

And checks me unaware.

Ah me! the little battle's done,
Dispersed is all its chivalry;

Full many a move since then have we
Mid Life's perplexing checkers made,
And many a game with Fortune play'd,-
What is it we have won?

This, this at least-if this alone;-
That never, never, never more,
As in those old still nights of yore

(Ere we were grown so sadly wise),

Can you and I shut out the skies, Shut out the world, and wintry weather,

We vow'd we would never-no, never for

get,

And those vows at the time were consoling;

But those lips that echo'd the sounds of mine

Are as cold as that lonely river;
And that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine,
Has shrouded its fires for ever.

And now on the midnight sky I look,
And my heart grows full of weeping;
Each star is to me a sealed book,

Some tale of that loved one keeping.
We parted in silence-we parted in tears,
On the banks of that lonely river:
But the odor and bloom of those bygone
years

Shall hang o'er its waters for ever.

JULIA CRAWFORD.

FAREWELL! BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR.

FAREWELL! but whenever you welcome the hour

That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower,

Then think of the friend who once wel

comed it too.

And forgot his own griefs to be happy with

you.

ROBERT BULWER LYTTON.

WE PARTED IN SILENCE.

WE parted in silence, we parted by night, On the banks of that lonely river; Where the fragrant limes their boughs unite,

We met and we parted for ever! The night-bird sung, and the stars above Told many a touching story,

Of friends long pass'd to the kingdom of love,

Where the soul wears its mantle of glory.

We parted in silence-our cheeks were

wet

With the tears that were past controlling;

main

Of the few that have brighten'd his path

way of pain

But he ne'er will forget the short vision that

threw

Its enchantment around him while lingering with you!

And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up

To the highest top-sparkle each heart and each cup,

Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,

My soul, happy friends! shall be with you that night

Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,

And return to me beaming all o'er with your smiles;

Too blest if it tells me that, mid the gay cheer,

Some kind voice had murmur'd, “I wish he were here!"

Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,

Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy!

Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care,

And bring back the features that joy used

to wear.

Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd!

Like the vase in which roses have once been distill'd;

You may break, you may ruin the vase if you will,

But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

THOMAS MOORE.

WHEN WE TWO PARTED.

WHEN we two parted

In silence and tears,

Half broken-hearted,

To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow-
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,

And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,

A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er meWhy wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well:Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met

In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee
After long years,

How should I greet thee?—
With silence and tears.

LORD BYRON.

LAMENT OF THE IRISH
EMIGRANT.

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,

Where we sat side by side
On a bright May mornin' long ago,
When first you were my bride;
The corn was springin' fresh and green,'
And the lark sang loud and high;
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary;
The day is bright as then;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath, warm on my cheek;
And I still keep list'nin' for the words
You never more will speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane,

And the little church stands near-
The church where we were wed, Mary;
I see the spire from here.
But the graveyard lies between, Mary,

And my step might break your rest—
For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep,
With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends;
But, oh! they love the better still
The few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary—

My blessin' and my pride:
There's nothing left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,

That still kept hoping on,

When the trust in God had left my soul,

And my arm's young strength was
gone;

There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow-
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile

When your heart was fit to break— When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there, And you hid it for my sake; I bless you for the pleasant word,

When your heart was sad and sore-
Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more!

I'm biddin' you a long farewell,
My Mary-kind and true!
But I'll not forget you, darling,

In the land I'm goin' to;

They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there-
But I'll not forget old Ireland,

Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods

I'll sit, and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies!
And I'll think I see the little stile

Where we sat side by side,

And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn,

When first you were my bride.

LADY DUFFERIN

THE AGE OF WISDOM.

Ho, pretty page with the dimpled chin That never has known the barber's shear,

All your wish is woman to win,
This is the way that boys begin,-
Wait till you come to Forty Year.

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains,

Billing and cooing is all your cheer; Sighing and singing of midnight strains, Under Bonnybell's window-panes,

Wait till you come to Forty Year!
Forty times over let Michaelmas pass,
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear—
Then you know a boy is an ass,
Then you know the worth of a lass,
Once you have come to Forty Year.

Pledge me round, I bid ye declare,

All good fellows whose beards are grey, Did not the fairest of the fair Common grow and wearisome ere

Ever a month was pass'd away?

The reddest lips that ever have kiss'd,

The brightest eyes that ever have shone,
May pray and whisper, and we not list,
Or look away, and never be miss'd,
Ere yet ever a month is gone.

Gillian's dead, God rest her bier!
How I loved her twenty years syne!
Marian's married, but I sit here
Alone and merry at Forty Year,
Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

ODE TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN. WRITTEN IN CHÉRICAL, MALABAR. SLAVE of the dark and dirty mine!

What vanity has brought thee here? How can I love to see thee shine

So bright, whom I have bought so dear?

The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear, For twilight converse, arm in arm;

The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear Whom mirth and music wont to charm.

By Chérical's dark wandering streams,

Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams Of Teviot, loved while still a child, Of castled rocks stupendous piled By Esk or Eden's classic wave,

Where loves of youth and friendship smiled,

Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave!

Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade!

The perish'd bliss of youth's first

prime,

That once so bright on fancy play'd,

Revives no more in after time.
Far from my sacred natal clime,

I haste to an untimely grave;

The daring thoughts that soar'd sublime Are sunk in ocean's southern wave.

Slave of the mine! thy yellow light Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear. A gentle vision comes by night

My lonely widow'd heart to cheer; Her eyes are dim with many a tear, That once were guiding stars to mine:

I cannot bear to see thee shine.

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave,
I left a heart that loved me true!
I cross'd the tedious ocean-wave,

To roam in climes unkind and new.
The cold wind of the stranger blew
Chill on my wither'd heart: the grave

Dark and untimely met my view,And all for thee, vile yellow slave! Ha! comest thou now so late to mock A wanderer's banish'd heart forlorn, Now that his frame the lightning shock Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne? From love, from friendship, country, torn, To memory's fond regrets the prey;

Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn! Go mix thee with thy kindred clay!

JOHN LEYDEN.

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.

BREAK, break, break,

On thy cold, gray stones, O sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.

Oh, well for the fisherman's boy

That he shouts with his sister at play! Oh, well for the sailor lad

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on

To the haven under the hill;

But oh, for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blazeA funeral pile!

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,

The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.

But 'tis not thus-and 'tis not here-
Such thoughts would shake my soul, nor
now,
Where glory decks the hero's bier,
Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece-she is awake)
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood!―unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.

If thou regret'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honorable death
Is here:-up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

Seek out-less often sought than found—
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.

LORD BYRON.

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY

THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR.

MISSOLONGHI, Jan. 22, 1824.

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,

Since others it has ceased to move: Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone!

OLD LETTERS.

OLD LETTERS! wipe away the tear
For vows and hopes so vainly worded?
A pilgrim finds his journal here
Since first his youthful loins were girded.

Yes, here are wails from Clapham Grove,
How could philosophy expect us
To live with Dr. Wise, and love
Rice-pudding and the Greek Delectus ?

Explain why childhood's path is sown

With moral and scholastic tin-tacks;