If I gave him what he praised, Was it strange? Would he lov'd me yet, On and on, While I found some way undreamed -Paid my debt! Gave more life and more, Till, all gone, He should smile-"She never seemed Mine before. "What-she felt the while, Must I think? Love's so different with us men," He should smile. "Dying for my sake D White and pink! Can't we touch these bubbles then, But they break?" Dear, the pang is brief. Do thy part, Have thy pleasure. How perplext Grows belief! Well, this cold clay clod Was man's heart. Crumble it -and what comes next? Is it God? ROBERT BROWNING. ABSENT STILL. AY, in melting purple dying; Thou, to whom I love to hearken, In a look if death there be, વ THE SMACK IN SCHOOL DISTRICT school, not far away 'Mid Berkshire hills, one winter's day, The while the master's downward look Let off in one tremendous kiss! "Wath William Willith, if you pleathe― The master thundered, "Hither, Will!" Will hung his head in fear and shame, The butt of all good-natured fun. With smile suppressed, and birch upraised, Before the whole set school to boot What evil genius put you to't?" "Twas she herself, sir," sobbed the lad, "I did not mean to be so bad; But up and kissed her on the spot! W. P. PALMER. PLY TO THE DESERT, FLY WITH ME. LY to the desert, fly with me, Our rocks are rough, but smiling there Our sands are bare, but down their slope As o'er the marble courts of kings. Then come-thy Arab maid will be Oh! there are looks and tones that d As if the very lips and eyes So came thy very glance and tone, ESTUS. THE QUIVER. THOMAS Moore. Lady! I will not forget my trust. (Apart) The breeze which curls the lakes's bright lip but lifts A purer, deeper, water to the light: The ruffling of the wild bird's wing but wakes A warmer beauty and a downier depth. That startled shrink, that faintest blossom-blush One weapon in shining armory, The quiver on thy shoulder, where thou keep'st If from that bow, shaped so like Beauty's lip, OTHELLO'S DEFENCE. OST potent, grave, and reverend signiors, It is most true; true, I have married her; In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience. O my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms, | Sweetener of life, and solder of society, What conjuration, and what mighty magic, (For such proceeding I am charged withal,) I won his daughter with. Her father loved me, oft invited me ; Still questioned me the story of my life, From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes, That I have passed. I ran it through, even from my boyish days, "o the very moment that he bade me tell it; Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances, Of moving accidents, by flood and field; I owe thee much. Thou hast deserved from me Far, far beyond what I can ever pay. Oft have I proved the labors of thy love, And the warm efforts of the gentle heart, In some thick wood have wander'd heedless on, In grateful errors through the underwood, Sweet murmuring: methought the shrill-tongued thrush of hairbreadth 'scapes in the imminent deadly breach; Mellow'd his pipe, and soften'd every note: And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence, And portance in my travel's history: Wherein of antres vast, and deserts idle, The eglantine smell'd sweeter, and the rose Assumed a dye more deep; whilst every flower Vied with its fellow plant in luxury Of dress-Oh! then, the longest summer's day Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch Seem'd too, too much in haste; still the full heart heaven, It was my hint to speak, such was the process: And of the Cannibals that each other eat, The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders. These things to hear Would Desdemona seriously incline : But still the house affairs would draw her thence; She'd come again, and with a greedy ear And often did beguile her of her tears, She swore-in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange, 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful :— She wished she had not heard it; yet she wished That heaven had made her such a man; she thank'd me; And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. FRIENDSHIP. NVIDIOUS grave!-how dost thou rend in sunder Had not imparted half: 'twas happiness EUPHROSYNE. ROBERT BLAIR. MUST ot say that thou wert true, Truth-what is truth! Two bleeding hearts Wounded by men, by fortune tried, Outwearied with their lonely parts, Vow to beat henceforth side by side. The world to them was stern and drear: But souls whom some benignant breath Has charm'd at birth from bloom and care, These ask no love-these plight no faith, For they are happy as they are. The world to them may homage make, And garlands for their forehead weave, And what the world can give, they takeBut they bring more than they receive. They smile upon the world; their ears To one demand alone are coy. They will not give us love and tearsThey bring us light, and warmth, and joy. On one she smiled and he was blest! She smiles elsewhere-we make a din ! But 'twas not love that heaved his breast, Fair child! it was the bliss within. MATTHEW ARNOLD. THEY SIN WHO TELL US LOVE CAN DIE. HEY sin who tell us love can die In heaven ambition cannot dwell, Its holy flame for ever burneth ; From heaven it came, to heaven returneth. Then hath in heaven its perfect rest. TO HIS WIFE. H! hadst thou never shared my fate, But thou hast suffer'd for my sake, The poison from a wound. My fond affection thou hast seen, To think more happy thou hadst been If we had never met. And has that thought been shared by thee? But there are true hearts which the sight But ah! from them to thee I turn, From thy more holy mind. The love that gives a charm to home, THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY. LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. "'M sitting on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side The place is little changed, Mary, 'Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near- But the graveyard lies between them, Mary, 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 blessing 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, I thank you for the patient smile I bless you for the pleasant word, I'm bidding you a long farewell, |