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I lose visions high, which to forget The worldling scarce can recognise ; Were worse than never to have And ridicule, against it hurled, kpowa.
Drops with a broken sting and dies. Not these; but souls found here and there, they live by law, not like the fool, Oases in our waste of sin,
But like the bard who freely singe When everything is well and fair,
In strictest bonds of rhyme and rcle, Aud God remits his discipline,
And finds iu them not bonds, but wingth Whos: sweet sabdual of the world,
Counsel to the Young Husband. Now, while she's changing,' said the Fear comes at first; but soon, rejoiced, Dean,
You'll find your strong and tender loves Her bridal for her travelling dress, Like holy rocks by Druids poised, I'll preach allegiance to your queen! The least force shakes, but none re
Preaching's ibe trade which I profess; And one more minute's mine! You know Her strength is your esteem; beware I've paid my girl a father's debt,
Of finding fault; her will's unnerved And this last charge is all I owe.
By blame; from you 'twould be despair; She's yours; but I love more than yet But praise that is not quite deserved You can ; such fondness only wakes Will all her noble nature move
When time has raised the heart above To make your utmost wishes true; The prejudice of youth, which makes Yet think, wbile mending thus your love, Beauty conditional to love.
of matching her ideal too! Prepare to meet the weak alarms The death of nuptial joy is sloth : of novel nearness ; recollect
To keep your mistress in your wife, The eye which magnises her charms Keep to the very height your oath, Is microscopic for defect.
And bonour her with arduous life.' Mr. Patmore was born at Woodford in Essex, July 2, 1823, son of Mr. P. G. Patmore (1786-1855), author of Personal Recollections of Deceased Celebrities,' &c. In 1846 Mr. Coventry Patmore was appointed one of the assistant-librarians of the British Museum, but retired from the office about 1868.
EDWARD ROBERT, LORD LYTTON, under the name of Owen Meredith,' has published two volumes of poetry-Clytemnestra,' 1855, and 'The Wanderer,' 1859. There are traces of sentimentalism and morbid feeling in the poems, but also fine fancy and graceful musical language. The poet is the only son of the first Lord Lytton, and was born November 8, 1831. The paternal taste in the selection of subjects from high life, with a certain voluptuous colouring, and a pseudo-melancholy, cynical air, has been reproduced in Owen Meredith,' though Tennyson was perhaps the favourite model. The young poet, however, had original merit enough to redeem such faults. He continued to write, and produced in succession · Lucile,' a novel in verse, 1860; 'Serbski Pesme,' a translation of the national songs of Servia; “The Ring of Amasis,' a prose romance, 1863: 'Chronicles and Characters,' two volumes of poems, chiefly historical, to which Mr. Lytton prefixed his own name; Orval, or the Fool of Time,' a dramatic poem, &c. For about twenty years Lord Lytton was en. gaged in the diplomatic service abroad, and in 1876 was appointed Governor-general or Viceroy of India. In 1874 the noble poet published two volumes of ‘Fables' in verse.
The Chess-board. My little love do you remember,
Rides slow her soldiery all between, Ere we were grown 80 sudly wise,
And checks me unaware. Those evenings in the bleak December, Ah me! the little battle's done, Curtained warm from the snowy weather, Dispersed is all its chivalry. When you and I played chess together, Full mauy a move, since then, have we
Checkmated by each other's eyes ? 'Mid life's perplexing checkers made,
Hovering warm o'er queen and knight; What is it we have won ?
Ere we were grown so sadly wiseOur fingers touch, our glances ineet Can you and I shut out the skies,
And falter, falls your golden bair Shut out the world and wintry weather, Against my cheek; your bosom sweet Aud eyes exchanging warmth with eyes, Is beaving; down the field, your queen Play chess as then we played together!
Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not
And then, we women cannot choose our lot.
Mach must be borne which it is hard to berr:
Much given away which it were sweet to keep.
And yet, I know, the Shepherd loves his sheep.
My little boy begins to babble now
Upon my knee his earliest infant prayer.
And, they say too, his mother's sunny hair.
But when he sleeps and smiles upon my knee,
And I can feel his light breath come and go,
Who loved me, and whom I loved, long ago.
Who might have been-ah, what I dare not think!
We all are changed. God judges for us best.
And trust in Heaven humbly for the rest.
But blame us women not, if some appear
Too cold at times, and some too gay and light.
Who knows the past ? and who can judge us right?
And not by what we are, too apt to fall !
These thoughts and me. In heaven we shall know all !
The Sailor's Grare. There is in the lone, lone sea,
It was his home when he had breath, A spot upmarked, but holy,
'Tis now his home for ever. For there the gallant and the free, In his ocean bed lies lowly.
Sleep on, sleep on. thou mighty dead !
A glorious tomb they've found thee; Down, down, beneath the deep,
The Broad blue sky above thee spread, That oft in triumph bore him,
The boundless ocean round thee.
No hand profile eball move thee, He sleeps-be sleeps, serene and safe But gallant hearts shal' proudly steer, From tempest and from billow,
And warriors shout above thee. Where storms that high above him chafe
Scarce rock his peaceful pillow. And though no stone may tell The sea and bim in death
Thy name, thy worth, ihy glory,
They rest in hearts that love thee well, i They did not da e to sever;
And they grace Britannia's story.
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me! CHARLES KENT (born in London in 1823) has published Dream. land, with other Poems,'1862; and a collective edition of his 'Poems' was issued in 1870. Mr. Kent has also written several prose tales and essays.
Love's Calendar. Talk of love in vernal hour3,
Talk of love in autumn days, When the landscape blushes
When the fruit, all mellow, With the dawning glow of flowers, Drops amid the ripening rays, While the early thrushes
While the leaflets yellow Warble in the apple-tree ;
Circle in the sluggish breeze When the primrose springing,
With their portents bitter ; From the green bank, lulls the bee, When between the fading trees On its blossom swinging.
Broader sunbeams glitter. Talk of love in summer-t de
Talk of love in winter time, When through bosky shallows
When the hailstorın burtles, Trills the streamlet-all its side
While the robin sparks of rime Pranked with freckled mallows;
Shakes from hardy myrtles, When in mossy lair of wrens
Never speak of love with scorn, Tiny eggs are warming ;
Sucb were direct treason ; When above the reedy fens
Love was made for eve and morn, Dragon-gnats are swarming.
And for every season.
LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. One of the best and most prolific of the American poetesses was MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY, born in Norwich, Connecticut, in 1791; died at Hartford in 1865. Maria Edgeworth and a host of critics have borne testimony to the poetic genius and moral influence of this accomplished woman.
The Early Blue-bird. Blue-bird ! on yon leafless tree,
Spring's a maid of mirth and glee, Dost thou carol thus to ine:
Rosy wreaths and revelry: *Spring is coming! Spring is here!' Hast thou wooed some winged love Bays't thou so, my birdie dear?
To a pest in verdant grove?
Sung to her of greenwood bower,
Of a lot that knows no care ?
She can sing a cheerful song ?
When the rude winds rock the tree, With a black and threatening eye; If she 'll croser cling to thee? Urchins, by the frozen rill,
Then the blasts that sweep the sky, Wrap their mantles closer still;
Unappalled sball pars thee by; Yon poor man, with doublet old,
Though thy curtained chamber shew Doth he shiver at the cold ?
Siftings of untimely snow. Hath he not a nose of blue ?
Warm and glad thy
heart shall be; Tell me, birdling, tell me true.
Love sball make it Spring for thee.
Midnight Thoughts at Sea. Borne upon the ocean's foam,
Blast and surge, conflicting hoarse, Far from native land and home,
Sweep us on with headlong force; Midnight's curtain, dense with wrath, And ihe bark, which tempests surge, Brooding o'er our venturous path, Moans and trembles at their scourge; While the mountain wave is rolling, Yet, should wildest tempests swell, And the ship's bell faintly tolling: Be Thou near, and all is well, Saviourl on the boisterous sea,
Saviour ! on the stormy set, Bid us rest secure in Thee.
Let us find repose in Tbee,
Hearts there are with love that burn
Wrecks are darkly sprend below,
JOHN G. WHITTIER. The Society of Friends, or Quakers, in America can boast of a poet who more than rivals their English representative, Bernard Barton. JOIN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, born near Haverhill, Massachusetts, in 1808, passed his early years on his father's farm; but after he came of age was chiefly engaged in literary pursuits. He edited several newspapers, and was an active opponent of negro slavery. He has published · Legends of New England,' in prose and verse, 1831; a volume of ‘Ballads,’ 1838; «The Stranger in Lowell' (prose essays), 1845; Voices of Freedom,' 1849; Songs of Labour,' 1850; · National Lyrics,' 1865; .Maud Müller,' 1866; and various other poetical tales and sketches. There is a neat compact edition of his collected poetical works in two small volumes (the ‘ Merrimack Edition '), 1860. In 1873 he published 'The Pennsylvanian Pilgrim, and other Poems,' which shewed that his fine vein of thought and melody was unimpaired.
The Robin. My old Welsh neighbour over the way You can see the mark on his red breast Crept slowly out in the son of spring,
etill Pushed from her ears the locks of gray, Of fires that scorch as he drops it in. And listened to hear the Robin sing.
My poor Bron rhoddyn! my breastHer grandson, playing at marbles, stop- burned bird, ped,
Singing so sweetly from limb to limb, And, cruel in sport as boys will be, Very dear to the heart of Our Lord Togeed a stone at the bird. who hopped Is he who pities the lost like him! From bough to bough in the apple-tree.
*Amen! I said to the beautiful myth; Nay!' said the grandmother, ‘have you Sing, bird of God, in my heart as well: not beard,
Each good thought is a drop wherewith My poor, bad boy, of the fiery pit, To cool and lessen the fires of hell. And how, drop by drop, this merciful bird
• Prayers of love like rain-drops fall, Carries the water that quenches it? Tears of pity pre cooling dew,
And dear to the heart of Our Lord are all *He brings cool dew in his little bill, Who suffer like Him in the good they And lets it fall on the souls of sin:
Barbara Fritchie. Up from the meadows, rich with corn, Round about them orchards atreep, Clear from the cool September morn, Apple and peach tree fruited deep; The clustered spires of Frederick stand, Fair as a garden of the Lord Green-walled by the hills of Marylaud. To the eyes of the famished rebel horde