ROUND THE WORLD GOES.

ROUND the world goes, by day and night,
While with it also round go we;
And in the flight of one day's light

An image of all life's course we see.
Round, round, while thus we go round,
The best thing a man can do,

Is to make it, at least, a merry-go-round,
By sending the wine round too.

Our first gay stage of life is when

Youth, in its dawn, salutes the eye→

Season of bliss! Oh, who wouldn't then Wish to cry, "Stop!" to earth and sky? But, round, round, both boy and girl

Are whisk'd through that sky of blue; And much would their hearts enjoy the whirl, If their heads didn't whirl round too.

Next, we enjoy our glorious noon,
Thinking all life a life of light;
But shadows come on, 'tis evening soon,

And, ere we can say, "How short!”.
Round, round, still all goes round,

-'tis night.

Ev'n while I'm thus singing to you; And the best way to make it a merry-go-round, Is to chorus my song round too.

OH, DO NOT LOOK SO BRIGHT AND BLEST.

Oн, do not look so bright and blest,

For still there comes a fear,

When brow like thine looks happiest,
That grief is then most near.
There lurks a dread in all delight,
A shadow near each ray,

That warns us then to fear their flight,
When most we wish their stay.

Then look not thou so bright and blest,
For ah! there comes a fear,

When brow like thine looks happiest,
That grief is then most near.

Why is it thus that fairest things
The soonest fleet and die?—

That when most light is on their wings,

They're then but spread to fly!

And, sadder still, the pain will stay

The bliss no more appears;

As rainbows take their light away,

And leave us but the tears!

Then look not thou so bright and blest,
For ah! there comes a fear,

When brow like thine looks happiest,
That grief is then most near.

THE MUSICAL BOX.

"Look here," said Rose, with laughing eyes,

"Within this box, by magic hid,

"A tuneful Sprite imprison'd lies,
"Who sings to me whene'er he's bid.
"Though roving once his voice and wing,
"He'll now lie still the whole day long;
"Till thus I touch the magic spring-

!"

"Then hark, how sweet and blithe his song (A symphony.)

"Ah, Rose," I cried, "the poet's lay

66

"Must ne'er ev'n Beauty's slave become; Through earth and air his song may stray, "If all the while his heart's at home.

"And though in freedom's air he dwell,

"Nor bond nor chain his spirit knows,

"Touch but the spring thou know'st so well, "And-hark, how sweet the love-song flows!" (A symphony.)