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OU'RE clever at drawing, I own,"
"She's painted already," quoth I;
Nay, nay!" said the laughing Lisette, "Now, none of your joking,--but try And paint me a thorough Coquette."
"Well, cousin," at once I began
In the ear of the eager Lisette, "I'll paint you as well as I can
That wonderful thing, a Coquette.
"She wears a most beautiful face
(Of course!-said the pretty Lisette), And isn't deficient in grace,
Or else she were not a Coquette.
"And then she is daintily made
Of forming a proper Coquette.
"She's the winningest ways with the beaux
"She knows how to weep and to sigh
(A sigh from the tender Lisette), But her weeping is all in my eye,
Not that of the cunning Coquette ! "In short, she's a creature of art
(O hush!—said the frowning Lisette), With merely the ghost of a heart,— Enough for a thorough Coquette.
"And yet I could easily prove
(Now, don't! said the angry Lisette),
"There,―do not be angry,—you know,
You told me a moment ago
To paint you—a thorough Coquette!"
DIVINE, O delightful legacy of a spotless reputation! Rich is the inheritance it leaves, the example it testifies! Pure, precious, and imperishable the hope which it inspires! Can there be conceived a more atrocious injury than to filch from its possessor this inestimable benefit; to rob society of its charm, and solitude of its solace; not only to outlaw life, but to attaint death, converting the very grave, the refuge of the sufferer, into the gate of infamy and of shame! I can conceive of but few crimes beyond it.
He who plunders my property takes from me that which can be repaired by time. But what period can repair a ruined reputation? He who maims my person, effects that which medicine may remedy. But what herb has sovereignty over the wounds of slander? He who ridicules my poverty, or reproaches my profession, upbraids me with that which industry may retrieve, and integrity may purify. But what riches shall redeem a bankrupt fame? What power shall blanch the sullied snow of character ? There can be no injury more deadly. There can be no crime more cruel. It is without remedy; without antidote; without evasion.
The reptile, calumny, is ever on the watch. From the fascination of its eye, no activity can escape. From the venom of its fang, no sanity can recover. It has no enjoyment but crime; no prey but virtue; no interval from the restlessness of its malice, save when, bloated with its victims, it grovels, to disgorge them at the withered shrine where envy idolizes her own infirmities.
OVER THE WAY.
OVER THE WAY.
ONE in her child like purity
Fading away in the light so sweet,
Where the silver stars and the sunbeams meet,
Over the silent way.
Over the bosom tenderly
The pearl-white hands are pressed,
The lashes lie on her cheeks so thin,
Where the softest blush of the rose hath been,—
The pure lids closed to rest.
Over the sweet brow lovingly
She was so fragile that love sent down,
From his heavenly gems, that soft, bright crown,
Gone to sleep with the tender smile
By the farewell kiss of her dewy breath,
Whose bloom the white frost nips.
Robin,-hushed in your downy bed,
Do you miss her voice from your glad duet-
Rosebud,-under your shady leaf,
Do you miss the glance of her eye so bright,
DRESS AND DRINK.
Whose blue was heaven to your timid sight?
Hearts,--where the darling's head hath lain,
Do you know that the touch of her gentle hand
DRESS AND DRINK.
What foul demon wrecked her
Hoard of youthful sweets?
Look upon that reeling,
Down the back streets stealing,
What hath done this? Pause and think!
"Twas Drink!-'twas Drink!
See that fair wife flying
From her husband's wrath,
Her guilty lover lying
Dying in her path!
What hath done this? Can you guess?
Bloody knife still reeking
In his desperate hand,
Round him in a band!
What makes thus his comrades shrink?
"Tis the deed-the deed of Drink!
Lying on the pavement
Dead, in her despair,
In his stony prison
Waiting for his doom,
Gallows first-then tomb!
Dress and Drink-ye demons twin,
Bane of body and of soul!
Shame your path-and death your goal!
DIES IRÆ.-THOMAS DE CELANO.
AY of vengeance, without morrow! Earth shall end in flame and sorrow, As from Saint and Seer we borrow.
Ah! what terror is impending,
To the throne, the trumpet, sounding,
Death and Nature, mazed, are quaking,
On the written Volume's pages,