please,

But must I bellow too, who sit at ease?
By custom safe, the poet's numbers flow
Free as the light and air some years ago:
No statesman e'er will find it worth his
pains

To tax our labors and excise our brains.

Her soft breath is warm on your cheek;

And, in the excitement grown bolder,
You murmur soft words in her ear,
And in blushes quite low on your shoulder
She replies that mamma must not hear-

One can talk though the dances are full; You don't go next week to the duchess'? Then I'm sure I shall find it quite dull."

But now for the next dance they're starting;
She shrinks to the chaperon's wings;
You press the small hand in the parting,
And her eyes say unspeakable things.

You cherish for many days after

The look that so lovingly beams : 'Tis a sorrow that stifles your laughter, "Tis a joy that is bright on your dreams.

You fancy, so lightly she dances,

Her dear little foot on your stair; You people with those sunny glances

A sweet little home in May Fair.

You saw that all eyes were upon her

As she moved down that glittering room, And you fancy, when once you have won her,

How pretty she'll look in your brougham

fane,

And think that fair burden ere you'd drop You would die to the cornet's wild strain.

The cornet blows louder and brisker;

She grows more confiding and weak;

Oh smile that was cruelly false!

Oh hopes that were born but to perish!

Oh dream that has fled with the valse!

When next you meet, doffing your beaver, You look for her bow, but in vain:

So high, at last, the contest rose,
From words they almost came to blows,
When luckily came by a third;
To him the question they referred,
And begged he'd tell them, if he knew,
Whether the thing was green or blue.

Sirs," said the umpire," cease your pother;
The creature's neither one nor t'other.
I caught the animal last night,
And viewed it o'er by candlelight;
I marked it well: 'twas black as jet.
You stare, but, sirs, I've got it yet,

Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil
Impels the native to repeated toil,
Industrious habits in each bosom reign,
And industry begets a love of gain.
Hence all the good from opulence that
springs,

Lay mouldering on the bare ground,

And the knight rushed in, but saw not a

trace

Of a friend as he gazed around.

He flew to the grove where his mistress late Had charmed him with love's sweet tone, But 'twas desolate now, and the strings were mute,

And she he adored was gone.

The wreaths were all dead in Rosalie's bower And Rosalie's dove was lost,

And the winter's wind had withered each flower

On the myrtle she valued most.

But a cypress grew where the myrtle's bloom
Once scented the morning air,

And under its shade was a marble tomb,
And Rosalie's home was there.

ANONYMOUS.

THROUGH DEATH TO LIFE.

plant,

That grows in the sunny clime, How every one of its thousand flowers,

As they drop in the blooming-time, Is an infant plant, that fastens its roots.

In the place where it falls on the ground,

And, fast as they drop from the dying

stem,

Grow lively and lovely around? By dying it liveth a thousand fold

In the young that spring from the death of the old.

Have you heard the tale of the pelican-
The Arab's Gimel el Bahr-
That lives in the African solitudes,

Where the birds that live lonely are? Have you heard how it loves its tender young,

And cares and toils for their good? It brings them water from fountains afar, And fishes the seas for their food. In famine it feeds them-what love can devise. !

The blood of its bosom, and, feeding them, dies.

Away in the sunny clime?

By humble growth of a hundred years

It reaches its blooming-time,
And then a wondrous bud at its crown.

Breaks into a thousand flowers:
This floral queen, in its blooming seen,
Is the pride of the tropical bowers,
But the plant to the flower is a sacrifice,
For it blooms but once, and in blooming
dies.

swan,

The snow-white bird of the lake?
It noiselessly floats on the silvery wave,

It silently sits in the brake;
For it saves its song till the end of life,
And then, in the soft, still even,
'Mid the golden light of the setting sun,
It sings as it soars into heaven,

And the blessed notes fall back from the

skies;

'Tis its only song, for in singing it dies.

one

A greater and better than all?

you

adore,

Before whom the hosts of them fallHow he left the choirs and anthems above For earth, in its wailings and woes, To suffer the shame and pain of the cross, And die for the life of his foes?

O Prince of the noble! O Sufferer divine! What sorrow and sacrifice equal to thine?

Have you all—

'A bonnie lass' were the words they said When they hung the veil o'er the young bride's head."

A hush fell over the eager tone

As she mused a while on the days long flown,

And a dreamlight shone in the tear-dimmed sight

As she looked afar in the fireside light.

With honest heart the deception saw, For, breaking the silence, he spoke again : "I didn't say 'bonny,' but 'bony,' gran."'Twas 'bony,' was it? I see! I see! You're not well versed in flattery !""I'm very sorry for what I said," He cried as he hung his curly head. She kissed him soft as he lay at rest, With tired head on her loving breast, And while the clock ticked silently She murmured low and musingly: