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The workings of his brow, where stood the sweat,
Wrung out profusely by the spirit's toil,
Betray'd the struggle. Not a sound was heard
While the last game was pending, save the fall
Of cards upon the table, or perchance
The muttering of a curse by him who mark'd
His ruin, or a trembling sigh long drawn
With difficult breathing. Ever and anon
A savage glance would fiercely penetrate
The hellish group, as in his breast there lurk'd
Suspicion of a deep laid scheme of wrong.
Significant signs pass'd unobserved by him;
And every motion of the brow, and eye,
And lip had meaning in it; and the smiles,
Now many unsuppress'd, evinced how sure
The golden victory was; yet not a word
Was whisper'd-hush'd was every one, intent
Upon the play, awaiting anxiously

Its close!****

The moon was mounting in the sky, and stars, Countless and brilliant, gemm'd the blue expanse; And zephyrs were abroad upon the hills.

And o'er the green and fragrant fields, with sweets From dew-wet blossoms gather'd on their wings.

High on a bank that beetled o'er the sea,
Lost Eugene stood, reclining 'gainst a rock,
Regarding first the waters that beneath
Roll'd ever onward with a ceaseless roar;
Then stretching his uncover'd arms abroad
Towards a sail that moved on ocean's breast,
And calling on the distant mariner,

And laughing till his o'erstrain'd voice grew hoarse.
The sea-birds were awaken'd by his shriek,
And from their nestling places in the crags
Flew wildly round with a shrill cry of fear.
Along the strand the dashing waves sent up
Their hollow moan, and he did answer them,
And fancied that he heard the call of those

He loved; and so he spoke familiarly,
And whisper'd words of love as to his wife
And little one.

Then came his reason back;

And as the stern sense of reality

Again possess'd his heart, he slowly knelt
And breathed a prayer to heaven.

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All-all was still:

The ocean-birds were slumbering; the green sea
Roll'd its bright billows quietly, 'neath which,
Far down amid the caves and coral groves,
A beautiful proud face was floating dark-
And monsters of the deep were gliding by
The cold dead form of Eugene.

ANON.

THE DESERTED WIFE.

He comes not. I have watch'd the moon go down,
But yet he comes not. Once it was not so.
He thinks not how these bitter tears do flow,
The while he holds his riot in that town.

Yet he will come and chide, and I shall weep;
And he will wake my infant from its sleep,
To blend its feeble wailing with my tears.
Oh! how I love a mother's watch to keep
Over those sleeping eyes, that smile, which cheers
My heart, though sunk in sorrow fix'd and deep!

I had a husband once, who loved me. Now
He ever wears a frown upon his brow.

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But yet I cannot hate. Oh! there were hours, When I could hang for ever on his eye, And Time, who stole with silent swiftness by, Strow'd, as he hurried on, his path with flowers

I loved him then-he loved me too.

My heart Still finds its fondness kindle, if he smile; The memory of our loves will ne'er depart; And though he often sting me with a dart,

Venom'd and barb'd, and waste, upon the vile,
Caresses, which his babe and mine should share;
Though he should spurn me, I will calmly bear
His madness; and, should sickness come, and lay
Its paralyzing hand upon him, then

I would, with kindness, all my wrongs repay,
Until the penitent should weep, and say,
How injured and how faithful I had been.

J. G. PERCIVAL.

THE DECAY OF FLOWERS.

DIE, blooming flowers! as if ye ne'er had been;
Die, and relinquish this empurpled scene:
Die, and in due succession, in your stead,
Others shall bloom, and equal fragrance shed;
Like you, bereaved of every living grace;
Like you in every clime, the human race
Shall perish in succession "No!" I hear
Reason announce in accents soft and clear,
Tuned to the warblings of those heavenly strings,
With whose sweet strain the sapphire region rings,
When holy Faith, in pity to mankind,

Reveals the triumphs of the immortal mind;
I hear, with mingled music from on high,
Reason announce, "Although they seem to die,
Not like the blossoms of the woody glade
Shall the bright flowers of human nature fade;
Adorn'd with mercy, piety, and truth,
They still shall flourish in immortal youth."
Ye flowers of human nature! at the time
We grieve for your decay, in orient prime,
Beneath the brilliancy of heavenly skies
Ye bloom. while here ye seem to fade, ye rise

Gay in the embellishment of recent hues;
Gales of more exquisite perfume diffuse
Than ye could breathe amid the mists below,
And gilt with beams of conscious splendour glow.
PROFESSOR RICHARDSON.

CONVERSATION.

THOUGH Nature weigh our talents, and dispense
To every man his modicum of sense,
And conversation, in its better part,
May be esteem'd a gift, and not an art,
Yet much depends, as in the tiller's toil,
On culture and the sowing of the soil.
Words learn'd by rote a parrot may rehearse,
But talking is not always to converse;
Not more distinct from harmony divine,
The constant creaking of a country sign.

Ye powers who rule the tongue-if such there are,
And make colloquial happiness your care,
Preserve me from the thing I dread and hate-
A duel in the form of a debate.
Vociferated logic kills me quite;

A noisy man is always in the right:
I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair,
Fix on the wainscot a distressful stare,
And, when I hope his blunders are all out,
Reply discreetly-"To be sure-no doubt."

Dubius is such a scrupulous, good man-
Yes you may catch him tripping, if you can.
He would not, with a peremptory tone,
Assert the nose upon his face his own;
With hesitation admirably slow,

He humbly hopes-presumes-it may be so.
His evidence, if he were call'd by law
To swear to some enormity he saw,

For want of prominence and just relief,
Would hang an honest man, and save a thief,
Through constant dread of giving truth offence,
He ties up all his hearers in suspense:
Knows what he knows as if he knew it not;
What he remembers seems to have forgot;
His sole opinion, whatsoe'er befall,
Centring, at last, in having none at all.
A story, in which native humour reigns,
Is often useful, always entertains:
A graver fact, enlisted on your side,
May furnish illustration, well applied;
But sedentary weavers of long tales
Give me the fidgets, and my patience fails.
'Tis the most asinine employ on earth,
To hear them tell of parentage and birth,
And echo conversations, dull and dry,
Embellish'd with, "He said," and "So said I."
At every interview their route the same,
The repetition makes attention lame:
We bustle up, with unsuccessful speed,
And, in the saddest part, cry, "Droll indeed!"

I pity bashful men, who feel the pain
Of fancied scorn and undeserved disdain,
And bear the marks upon a blushing face,
Of needless shame, and self-imposed disgrace.
Our sensibilities are so acute,

The fear of being silent makes us mute.
True modesty is a discerning grace,

And only blushes in the proper place;

But counterfeit is blind, and skulks, through fear,

Where 't is a shame to be ashamed t' appear;

Humility the parent of the first,

The last by vanity produced and nursed.

The circle form'd, we sit in silent state,

Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate;

"Yes, ma'am," and "No, ma'am," utter'd softly, show Every five minutes, how the minutes go;

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