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Pour me, from Ionian goblets,

Wine of legislation's spring.
Filled with joyous halcyon fancies

Drawn from life streams of the vine,
In ecstatic verse I give you

Ι
Laws with pleasure that combine.
Showers of golden thought come flashing

When the flame born fills the soul,
Frenzies conscious and poetic

Leap exulting from the bowl.
And the listening chords shall pulsate,

Sympathizing with the glee
Of the hymn, O Dionusos !

Loudly I will sing to thee.
Quick! the harp heroic bring!

But without the blood stained string.

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HOW KISSING FIRST CAME UP, One glowing summer morning, reading calmly in the

glade, Where shadows of the waving trees a moving carpet

made, With gauzy flowing garments, gliding fay-like through

the air, Young Ellen came and lightly leant upon my garden

chair, Her white round arm so lightly leaning on the rustic

chair.

“What quaint old musty volume, cousin, are you ponder

ing o'er?" “The History of Womankind, as told in days of yore; With curious tales of customs strange its pages do

abound,

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And here the way how kissing first came up' is to be

found, How kissing first was introduced, herein is to be found. This pleasing pastime first began in Rome, as some

assert, Where ladies never tasted wine, not even at dessert ; And kinsmen to be certain of such abstinence, it saith, First kissed relations on the mouth, to find out by their

breath, To find out if the rich wine's fragrance lingered in

their breath."

In thoughtful blushing silence, gentle Ellen looketh

down, And gathereth on her puzzled brow faint semblance of a

frown; Why you so oft have kissed me, I could ne'er before

divine, But, oh !-how could you-could you ever think I smelt

of wine, Now, cousin ! did you really ever think I smelt of

wine?"

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THE MUFFIN BELL.

A COUNTRY-TOWN SONG.

That little noisy muffin-bell,

Tinkling down the misty street,
With drowsy echo doth foretell

Festive hours, when old friends meet.
How early now the day grows dusk !

The autumn stores are gathered in ;

And filberts, peeping through their husk,

Coax old port from choicest bin.
Ting-a ring-ting, tinkle ting, tinkle ting !
That little bell cheerful thoughts does bring.
The present year is growing old,

Changed the vesture of his prime;
Still looking gay with brown and gold;

Soon he'll wear a beard of rime. Prepare a welcome for our guest,

Heaps of game, no doubt, he'll bring; Make home a warm and cosy nest,

Books we'll read, and songs we'll sing. Ting-a-ring-ting, tinkle ting, tingle ting ! That little bell cheerful thoughts does bring. Shut out the night, each curtain close,

Trim the brightly glowing fire ; Loud, hoarse, and shrill the rude wind blows,

Draw your chairs a little higher. Abroad some seek ambition's prize,

Home-found joys please others well;
The social urn they don't despise :

Hark! I hear the muffin bell.
Ting-a-ring-ting, tinkle ting, tinkle ting !
That little bell cheerful thoughts does bring.

G A LA TEA.

A MADRIGAL. “Malo me Galatea petit, lasciva puella ; Et fugit ad salices, et se cupit ante videri."

VIRG. Ecl. iii. Blooming, blushing, Galatea,

Hastening to the wood I see her;

With her pretty head askance,
She turns on me a saucy glance,

Sweet enticing Galatea.

Why seeketh she the osier shade,

That coy, alluring, winsome maid ?
Not to hide, but to be seen,
Ere she reach the willows green.

Tantalizing Galatea.

The sportive girl an apple throws

At me, as to the wood she goes,
And with panting bosom flies
From the kiss for which she sighs.

Laughing, mocking Galatea.

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As the sun descends,
And the long day ends,

Richer robes clothe the changing west,
And holiness beams
O'er the woods and streams,

Happy type of a heavenly rest.
So 'tis sweet to trace
In some dear old face,

As the peach-bloom fades to white,
How the spirit's calm

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Sheds a hallowing balm

O'er the threshold of coming night.

Love for the old !
Though dim vapours enfold

The sides of the mountains high;
Tbeir summits serene
Stand clear between

Earth's mists and a cloudless sky.

FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW.

Sabbath morn, snowflakes are falling

Round the Church-yard's grey stone wall; Softer sound the chime bells calling

To the village and the hall : Come unto me heavy laden,

Little children come to me, Yeoman, matron, youth and maiden,

Come ! to all God's house is free. Cheerfully a crowd is wending,

Leaving footprints in the snow; Onward leading, upward bending

To the Church-crown'd hill they go. See! a gleam of sunshine, playing

O'er the pulpit's glowing red, Seems to bless the Vicar praying,

As he bows his silver head.
Footprints, fringed with crystals sparkling,

Trace out many a winding way
To and from the Church, when darkling

Evening veils the silent day.
Night's fond eyes, with diamond splendour,

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