At which he rose up in his anger, you no longer are fair! "Why, now, "Love's a virtue for heroes! -as white as the Why, now, you no longer are fatal, but ugly and And immortal as every great soul is that strug hateful, I swear.' gles, endures, and fulfils. XI. At which she laughed out in her scorn, men! O, these men overnice, XXI. "These "I love my Walter profoundly, -you, Maude, though you faltered a week, Who are shocked if a color not virtuous is frankly For the sake of... what was it? an eyebrow ? or, put on by a vice." XII. Her eyes blazed upon him- "And you! You bring us your vices so near That we smell them! You think in our presence a thought 't would defame us to hear! XIII. What reason had you, and what right, peal to your soul from my life, less still, a mole on a cheek? XXII. "And since, when all's said, you're too noble to stoop to the frivolous cant About crimes irresistible, virtues that swindle, betray, and supplant, XXIII. "I determined to prove to yourself that, whate'er you might dream or avow To find me too fair as a woman? Why, sir, I am By illusion, you wanted precisely no more of me ["In the Parish of St. Neots, Cornwall, is a well, arched over with the robes of four kinds of trees, withy, oak, elm, and ashand dedicated to St. Keyne. The reported virtue of the water is this, that, whether husband or wife first drink thereof, they get the mastery thereby."— FULLER.] A WELL there is in the West country, "I have left a good woman who never was here," The stranger he made reply; "But that my draught should be better for that, I pray you answer me why." "St. Keyne, "quoth the countryman, "many a time Drank of this crystal well, And before the angel summoned her "If the husband of this gifted well "But if the wife should drink of it first, "You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?" He to the countryman said. But the countryman smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head. "I hastened, as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch. But i' faith, she had been wiser than me, ROBERT SOUTHEY. HOME, SWEET HOME. HOME. FROM THE OPERA OF "CLARI, the Maid of MILAN." Home! home! sweet, sweet home! An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain! Flashes the lovelight, increasing the glory, Beaming from bright eyes with warmth of the soul, Telling of trust and content the sweet story, King, king, crown me the king: Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king! Richer than miser with perishing treasure, Served with a service no conquest could bring; Happy with fortune that words cannot measure, Light-hearted I on the hearthstone can sing. King, king, crown me the king: Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king. REV. WILLIAM RANKIN DURYEA. Without disease, the healthful life; The household of continuance; The mean diet, no delicate fare; The faithful wife, without debate; LORD SURREY. A SHEPHERD'S LIFE. FROM THIRD PART OF HENRY VI." KING HENRY. O God! methinks, it were a happy life, To be no better than a homely swain ; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, So many hours must I take my rest; So many hours must I contemplate; So many hours must I sport myself; So many days my ewes have been with young; SHAKESPEARE. THE MEANS TO ATTAIN HAPPY LIFE. MARTIAL, the things that do attain The happy life be these, I find, The riches left, not got with pain; The fruitful ground, the quiet mind, The equal friend; no grudge, no strife; No charge of rule, nor governance; THE FIRESIDE. DEAR Chloe, while the busy crowd, Be called our choice, we'll step aside. From the gay world we 'll oft retire Where love our hours employs; If solid happiness we prize, Our portion is not large, indeed; But then how little do we need, For nature's calls are few; In this the art of living lies, To want no more than may suffice, And make that little do. We'll therefore relish with content Nor lose the present hour. To be resigned when ills betide, Patient when favors are denied, A WINTER'S EVENING HYMN TO MY FIRE. O THOU of home the guardian Lar, Our brave old poets: at thy touch how stirs Thou murmurest, too, divinely stirred, The rhythms so rathe and delicate, And broke, beneath the sombre weight As who would say, "Tis those, I ween, While the gray snow-storm, held aloof, By him with fire, by her with dreams,. Than all the grapes' bewildering juice, A flower of frailest revery, Now laughter-rippled, and now caught |