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Threaded the mystic mazes of the dance;
This heart has throbbed at tales of love and woe; These shreds of raven hair once set the fashion; This withered form inspired the tender passion. In vain ; the skilful hand and feelings warm,
The foot that tigured in the bright quadrille, The palm of genius and the manly form,
All bowed at once to Death's mysterious will, Who sealed me up where mummies sound are sleeping, In cerecloth and in tolerable keeping ;Where cows and monkeys squat in rich brocade,
And well-dressed crocodiles in painted cases, Rats, bats, and owls, and cats in masquerade,
With scarlet flounces, and with varnished faces; Then birds, brutes, reptiles, fish, all crammed together, With ladies that might pass for well-tanned leather; Where Rameses and Sabacon lie down,
And splendid Psammis in his hide of crust, Princes and heroes,—men of high renown,
Who in their day kicked up a mighty dust; Their swarthy mummies kicked up dust in number, When huge Belzoni came to scare their slumber. Who'd think these rusty hams of mine were seated
At Dido's table, when ne wondrous tale Of“Juno's hatred” was so well repeated ?
And ever and anon the Queen turned pale ; Meanwhile the brilliant gaslights, hung above her, Threw a wild glare upon her shipwrecked lover. Ay, gaslights! Mock me not, -we men of yore
Were versed in all the knowledge you can mention; Who hath not heard of Egypt's peerless lore,
Her patient toil, acuteness of invention ?
On block gigantic, building up her fame,
Temples and obelisks her skill proclaim! Yet though her art and toil unearthly seem, Those blocks were brought on railroads and by steam! How, when, and why our people came to rear
The pyramid of Cheops,-mighty pile !
I will unfold, if thou wilt stay awhile,
But ah !-what's this! the shades of bards and kings
I am not to reveal these hidden things.
MRS. CAUDLE HAS TAKEN COLD.
DOUGLAS JERROLD. I'm not going to contradict you, Caudle; you may say what
you like, but I think I ought to know my own feelings better than you. I don't wish to upbraid you, neither; I'm too ill for that; but it's not getting wet in thin shoes; oh, no! it's my mind, Caudle, my mind that's killing me. Oh, yes! gruel, indeed; you think gruel will e a woman of anything; and you know, too, how I hate it. Gruel can't reach what I suffer ; but, of course, nobody is ever ill but yourself. Well, I–I didn't mean to say that; but when you talk in that way about thin shoes, a woman says, of course, what she doesn't mean; she can't help it. You've always gone on about my shoes, when I think I'm the fittest judge of what becomes me best. I dare say 'twould be all the same to you if I put on ploughman's boots ; but I'm not going to make a figure of my feet, I can tell you. I've never got cold with the shoes I've worn yet, and it isn't likely I should begin now.
No, Caudle; I wouldn't wish to say anything to accuse you ; no, goodness knows, I wouldn't make you uncomfortable for the world—but the cold I've got, I got ten years ago. I have never said anything about itbut it has never left me. Yes; ten years ago the day before yesterday. How can I recollect it! Oh, very well; women remember things you never think of; poor souls ! They've good cause to do so. Ten years ago, I was sitting up for you—there now, I'm not going to say anything to vex you, only do let me speak; ten years ago, I was waiting for you, and I fell asleep, and the fire went out, and when I woke I found I was sitting right in the draught of the key-hole. That was my death, Caudle, though don't let that make you uneasy, love; for I don't think that you meant to do it.
Ha! it's all very well for you to call it nonsense, and to lay your ill-conduct upon my shoes. That's like a man, exactly! There never was a man yet that killed his wife, who couldn't give a good reason for it. No, I don't mean to say that you've killed me, quite the reverse, still, there's never been a day that I haven't felt that keyhole. What? Why don't I have a doctor? What's the use of a doctor? Why should I put you to the expense ? Besides, I dare say you'll do very well without me, Caudle; yes, after a very little time you won't miss me much—no man ever does.
Peggy tells me Miss Prettyman called to-day. What of it? Nothing, of course. Yes, I know she heard I was ill, and that's why she came. A little indecent, I think, Mr. Caudle; she might wait; I sha'n't be in her way long; she may soon have the key of the caddy now.
Ha! Mr. Caudle, what's the use of your calling me your dearest soul now? Well, I do,—I believe you. I dare say you do mean it; that is, I hope you do. Nevertheless, you can't expect I can be quiet in this bed, and think of that young woman—not, indeed, that she's near 80 young as she gives herself out. I bear no malice towards her, Caudle, not the least. Still I don't think I could lie at peace in my grave if-well, I won't say anything more about her, but you know what I mean.
I think dear mother would keep house beautifully for you when I'm gone. Well, love, I won't talk in that way, if you desire it. Still, I know I've a dreadful cold; though I won't allow it for a minute to be the shoes, certainly not. I never would wear 'em thick, and you know it, and they never gave me a cold yet. No, dearest Caudle, it's ten years ago that did it; not that I'll say a syllable of the matter to hurt you. I'd die first. Mother, you see, knows all
you wouldn't get another wife to study you and pet you up as I've done,-a second wife never does; it isn't likely she should. And after all, we've been very happy. It hasn't been my fault, if we've ever had a word or two, for you couldn't help now and then being aggravating; nobody can help their tempers always, especially men. Still, we've been very happy, haven't we, Caudle?
Good-night. Yes, this cold does tear me to pieces; but for all that, it isn't the shoes. God bless you, Caudle; no, it's not the shoes. I won't say it's the keyhole; but again I say, it's not the shoes. God bless you once more ;—but never say it's the shoes.
SHALL WE KNOW EACH OTHER THERE?
When we hear the music ringing
In the bright celestial dome,
Gladly bid us welcome home
Where the spirit knows no care,
Shall we know each other there?
As we go to join their band,
In that glorious spirit land?
On us as in days of yore?
Fondly round us as before ?
Yes, my earth-worn soul rejoices,
And my weary heart grows light,
And the angel faces bright,
Are the loved of long ago;
Thus their mortal friends to know.
Droop not, faint not by the way!
In that land of perfect day.
Murmured in my raptured ear;
We shall know each other there."
LIFE FROM DEATH.-HORATIUS BONAR. The star is not extinguished when it sets
Upon the dull horizon; it but goes To shine in other skies, then reappear
In ours, as fresh as when it first arose.
It pours its flood into the abyss below;
It hastens onward with yet fuller flow.
Of the eclipsing moon obscures its ray;
Will burst undimmed into the joy of day. The lily dies not when both flower and leaf
Fade, and are strewed upon the chill, sad ground; Gone down for shelter to its mother-earth,
'Twill rise, re-bloom, and shed its fragrance round. The dew-drop dies not when it leaves the flower
And passes upward on the beam of morn;
To its loved flower, at twilight, to return.
Seizes upon it with consuming glow;