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THE PLEASURES OF VICISSITUDE.

WHEN all the sky's serenely blue,

Ye wretched few deprived of bliss
By what the world calls happiness,

When roads are good and tolls are few, I feel and pity the distress

And horses safe and chaises new,

And postboys drive us carefully,

Then all-monotonous the days,
And void of interest seem the ways,
As, lolling backward in the chaise,
We lounge and grumble sleepily;

Then beds seem hard and inns are cold,
And mutton tough and chickens old,
And cheeses strong and void of mould,
And landlords cheat prodigiously.

But when across the vault of night
Wide flame the forked bolts of light,
And horses gallop with affright,

And rear and start confusedly;

Or when a drunken postboy drives
Regardless of the limbs and lives
Of those by whom his master thrives,-
Up starts each latent energy.

Then every steep's unguarded flank,
And every ditch profound and dank,
And e'en each gently-rising bank,
Alarm the traveller horribly.

But if those ills we steer between,
How lovely looks the blue serene!
How pleasant the long level green
Which tired us once confoundedly!
How safe a harbor seems an inn!
How honest looks old Double-Chin,
His thrice-dressed dinner bringing in,
And bowing to us courteously!

Which makes your lives drag heavily.

Continual good is sure to cloy;
'Tis from the mixture of alloy
That ease is ease, that joy is joy,
And ecstasy is ecstasy.
RICHARD WESTALL, R. A.

WRITTEN AT MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.
THE trembling dewdrops fall

Upon the shutting flowers; like souls at rest,
The stars shine gloriously; and all,
Save me, are blest.

Mother, I love thy grave!

The violet, with its blossoms blue and mild,
Waves o'er thy head: when shall it

wave

Above thy child?

'Tis a sweet flower, yet must

Its bright leaves to the coming tempest bow:
Dear mother, 'tis thine emblem; dust
Is on thy brow.

And I could love to die

To leave untasted life's dark, bitter streams,
By thee, as erst in childhood, lie,
And share thy dreams.

And I must linger here

To stain the plumage of my sinless years,
And mourn the hopes to childhood dear
With bitter tears.

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JAFFÀR.

INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF SHELLEY.

SHELLEY, take this to thy dear

memory:

Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this

The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss,
Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate
Might smile upon another half as great.

To praise the generous is to think of thee. He said, "Let worth grow frenzied if it will;
The caliph's judgment shall be master still.
Go! and, since gifts thus move thee, take
this gem-

Jaffar the Barmecide, the good vizier,

The poor

peer

man's hope, the friend without a

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The richest in the Tartar's diadem-
And hold the giver as thou deemest fit.”
"Gifts!" cried the friend. He took: and.
holding it

High toward the heavens, as though to meet

his star,

Exclaimed, “This too I owe to thee, Jaffàr !''

LEIGH HUNT.

AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE.

HOW

OW sweet it were if without feeble
fright,

Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight,
An angel came to us, and we could bear
To see him issue from the silent air
At evening in our room, and bend on ours
His divine eyes, and bring us from his
bowers

Bring me this man," the caliph cried. The News of dear friends, and children who have

man

never

Was brought was gazed upon. The mutes Been dead indeed, as we shall know for

began

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ever!

Alas! we think not what we daily see
About our hearths angels that are to be,
Or may be if they will and we prepare
Their souls and ours to meet in happy air-

Made a man's eyes friends with delicious A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart

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