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(Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness.

Thou through such a mist dost show us That our best friends do not know us, And, for those allowed features Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to fell chimeras, Monsters, that who see us, fear us; Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.

Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou, That but by reflex canst show What his deity can do,As the false Egyptian spell Aped the true Hebrew miracle? Some few vapors thou mayst raise, The weak brain may serve to amaze; But to the reins and nobler heart Canst nor life nor heat impart.

Brother of Bacchus, later born!
The old world was sure forlorn,
Wanting thee, that aidest more
The god's victories than, before,
All his panthers, and the brawls
Of his piping Bacchanals.
These, as stale, we disallow,

Or judge of thee meant: only thou
His true Indian conquest art;
And, for ivy round his dart,
The reformed god now weaves
A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.

Scent to match thy rich perfume
Chemic art did ne'er presume,
Through her quaint alembic strain,
None so sovereign to the brain.
Nature, that did in thee excel,
Framed again no second smell.
Roses, violets, but toys
For the smaller sort of boys,
Or for greener damsels meant ;
Thou art the only manly scent.

Stinkingest of the stinking kind!
Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind!
Africa, that brags her foyson,
Breeds no such prodigious poison !
Henbane, nightshade, both together,
Hemlock, aconite-

Nay, rather,

Plant divine, of rarest virtue !
Blisters on the tongue would hurt you!
'T was but in a sort I blamed thee;
None e'er prospered who defamed thee;

Irony all, and feigned abuse,
Such as perplext lovers use
At a need, when, in despair
To paint forth their fairest fair,
Or in part but to express
That exceeding comeliness
Which their fancies doth so strike,
They borrow language of dislike;
And, instead of dearest Miss,
Jewel, honey, sweetheart, bliss,
And those forms of old admiring,
Call her cockatrice and siren,
Basilisk, and all that''s evil,
Witch, hyena, mermaid, devil,
Ethiop, wench, and blackamoor,
Monkey, ape, and twenty more,
Friendly trait'ress, loving foe,
Not that she is truly so,
But no other way they know,
A contentment to express
Borders so upon excess
That they do not rightly wot
Whether it be from pain or not.

Or, as men, constrained to part With what's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow's at the height Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall,

On the darling thing, whatever, Whence they feel it death to sever, Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce.

For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. For thy sake, tobacco, I

Would do anything but die,

And but seek to extend my days
Long enough to sing thy praise. .
But, as she who once hath been

A king's consort is a queen
Ever after, nor will bate
Any tittle of her state
Though a widow, or divorced, —
So I, from thy converse forced,
The old name and style retain,
A right Catherine of Spain ;
And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys
Of the blest tobacco boys;
Where, though I, by sour physician,
Am debarred the full fruition
Of thy favors, I may catch

Some collateral sweets, and snatch
Sidelong odors, that give life
Like glances from a neighbor's wife;
And still live in the by-places

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GO, FEEL WHAT I HAVE FELT.

By a young lady who was told that she was a monomaniac in her hatred of alcoholic liquors.]

Go, feel what I have felt,

Go, bear what I have borne;
Sink 'neath a blow a father dealt,
And the cold, proud world's scorn.
Thus struggle on from year to year,
Thy sole relief the scalding tear.

Go, weep as I have wept

O'er a loved father's fall;
See every cherished promise swept,
Youth's sweetness turned to gall;
Hope's faded flowers strewed all the way
That led me up to woman's day.

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Go to my mother's side,

And her crushed spirit cheer;
Thine own deep anguish hide,

Wipe from her cheek the tear;
Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed brow,
The gray that streaks her dark hair now,
The toil-worn frame, the trembling limb,
And trace the ruin back to him
Whose plighted faith, in early youth,
Promised eternal love and truth,
But who, forsworn, hath yielded up
This promise to the deadly cup,
And led her down from love and light,
From all that made her pathway bright,

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WE are two travellers, Roger and I.
Roger's my dog: — - come here, you scamp!
Jump for the gentlemen, - mind your eye!
Over the table, - look out for the lamp!
The rogue is growing a little old ;

Five years we've tramped through wind and weather,

And slept out-doors when nights were cold,

And ate and drank - and starved together. We've learned what comfort is, I tell you A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow ! The paw he holds up there's been frozen), Plenty of catgut for my fiddle

(This out-door business is bad for the strings), Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings!

No, thank ye, sir, I never drink;

Roger and I are exceedingly moral, Are n't we, Roger? see him wink!

Well, something hot, then, we won't quarrel. He's thirsty too, - see him nod his head? What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk!

He understands every word that's said,
And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.

The truth is, sir, now I reflect,

I've been so sadly given to grog,

I wonder I've not lost the respect

(Here's to you, sir!) even of my dog.
But he sticks by through thick and thin;
And this old coat, with its empty pockets,
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,

He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets

There is n't another creature living

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving

To such a miserable, thankless master! No, sir! see him wag his tail and grin ! By George! it makes my old eyes water! That is, there's something in this gin

That chokes a fellow. But no matter!

We'll have some music, if you're willing,

And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, sir !)

Shall march a little. Start, you villain!

She's married since, a parson's wife;

'T was better for her that we should part, Better the soberest, prosiest life

Than a blasted home and a broken heart.
I have seen her? Once I was weak and spent
On the dusty road, a carriage stopped;
But little she dreamed, as on she went,

Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped!

You've set me talking, sir; I'm sorry;

It makes me wild to think of the change!
What do you care for a beggar's story?
Is it amusing? you find it strange?

Stand straight! 'Bout face! Salute your offi- I had a mother so proud of me!

cer!

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Why not reform? That's easily said;
But I've gone through such wretched treat-
ment,

Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,

And scarce remembering what meat meant,
That my poor stomach's past reform;

And there are times when, mad with thinking,
I'd sell out heaven for something warm
To prop a horrible inward sinking.

Is there a way to forget to think?

At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends,
A dear girl's love, but I took to drink,
The same old story; you know how it ends.
If you could have seen these classic features,
You need n't laugh, sir; they were not then
Such a burning libel on God's creatures;
I was one of your handsome men !

If you had seen her, so fair and young,
Whose head was happy on this breast!
If you could have heard the songs I sung
When the wine went round, you would n't have
guessed

That ever I, sir, should be straying

From door to door, with fiddle and dog,
Ragged and penniless, and playing
To you to-night for a glass of grog!

'T was well she died before- Do you know
If the happy spirits in heaven can see
The ruin and wretchedness here below?
Another glass, and strong, to deaden

This pain; then Roger and I will start.
I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden,
Aching thing in place of a heart?
He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could,
No doubt, remembering things that were,
A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,
And himself a sober, respectable cur.

I'm better now; that glass was warming.
You rascal limber your lazy feet!
We must be fiddling and performing

For supper and bed, or starve in the street.
Not a very gay life to lead, you think?

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink;

The sooner the better for Roger and me!
J. T. TROWBridge.

THE POOR MAN AND THE FIEND.

A FIEND once met a humble man
At night, in the cold dark street,
And led him into a palace fair,

Where music circled sweet;

And light and warmth cheered the wanderer's
heart,

From frost and darkness screened,
Till his brain grew mad beneath the joy,
And he worshipped before the fiend.

Ah! well if he ne'er had knelt to that fiend,
For a taskmaster grim was he;
And he said, "One half of thy life on earth
I enjoin thee to yield to me;

And when, from rising till set of sun,

Thou hast toiled in the heat or snow,
Let thy gains on mine altar an offering be";
And the poor man ne'er said "No!"

O sweet content!

The poor man had health, more dear than gold; Canst drink the waters of the crispéd spring?
Stout bone and muscle strong,
That neither faint nor weary grew,

To toil the June day long;

And the fiend, his god, cried hoarse and loud, "Thy strength thou must forego,

Or thou no worshipper art of mine";
And the poor man ne'er said "No!"

Three children blest the poor man's home,-
Stray angels dropped on earth,
The fiend beheld their sweet blue eyes,
And he laughed in fearful mirth :
"Bring forth thy little ones," quoth he,
"My godhead wills it so!

I want an evening sacrifice";

And the poor man ne'er said "No!"

A young wife sat by the poor man's fire, Who, since she blushed a bride,

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Had gilded his sorrow, and brightened his joys, His guardian, friend, and guide.

Foul fall the fiend! he gave command,
"Come, mix the cup of woe,

Bid thy young wife drain it to the dregs";
And the poor man ne'er said "No!"

O, misery now for this poor man!
O, deepest of misery!

Next the fiend his godlike reason took,
And amongst beasts fed he;

And when the sentinel mind was gone,
He pilfered his soul also;

And

marvel of marvels! - he murmured not;

The poor man ne'er said "No!"

Now, men and matrons in your prime,
Children and grandsires old,

Come listen, with soul as well as ear,
This saying whilst I unfold;

O, listen! till your brain whirls round,
And your heart is sick to think,

That in England's isle all this befell,

And the name of the fiend was - DRINK ! REV. MR. MACLELLAN.

THE HAPPY HEART.

ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
O sweet content!

Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?
O punishment!

Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed
To add to golden numbers, golden numbers?
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labor bears a lovely face;
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!

Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine

own tears?

O punishment!

Then he that patiently want's burden bears
No burden bears, but is a king, a king!

O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labor bears a lovely face;
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!

T. DECKER.

SWEET IS THE PLEASURE.

SWEET is the pleasure

Itself cannot spoil!

Is not true leisure

One with true toil?

Thou that wouldst taste it,

Still do thy best;
Use it, not waste it, -
Else 't is no rest.
Wouldst behold beauty
Near thee? all round?
Only hath duty

Such a sight found.

Rest is not quitting

The busy career; Rest is the fitting

Of self to its sphere.

"T is the brook's motion, Clear without strife, Fleeing to ocean

After its life.

Deeper devotion

Nowhere hath knelt; Fuller emotion

Heart never felt.

"T is loving and serving

The highest and best; "T is onwards! unswerving, And that is true rest.

JOHN SULLIVAN DWIGHT.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.

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