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And from her cheek the roseate glow
Of girlhood's balmy morn had vanished ; Within her eyes, upon her brow,
Lay something softer, fonder, deeper, As if in dreams some visioned woe
Had broke the Elysium of the sleeper,
I saw her thrice,-Fate's dark
In widow's garments had arrayed her, Yet beautiful she seemed to be
As even my reveries portrayed her; The glow, the glance had passed away,
The sunshine and the sparkling glitter, Still, though I noted pale decay,
The retrospect was scarcely bitter;
Serene, subduing, soothing, holy,
louder mirth is folly, A pensiveness which is not grief,
A stillness, as of sunset streaming, A fairy glow on flower and leaf,
Till earth looks like a landscape dreaming. A last time—and unmoved she lay
Beyond Life's dim, uncertain river, A glorious mould of fading clay
From whence the spark had fled for ever! I gazed, my breast was like to burst,
And as I thought of years departed, The years wherein I saw her first,
When she, a girl, was tender-hearted: And when I mused on later days,
As moved she in her matron duty, A happy mother, in the blaze
of ripened hope and sunny beauty; I felt the chill, -I turned aside,
Bleak Desolation's cloud came o'er me, And Being seemed a troubled tide
Whose wrecks in darkness swam before me ! A BACIIELOR'S COMPLAINT.
H. G. BELL.
They're stepping off, the friends I knew,
They're going one by one: They're taking wives to tame their lives
Their jovial days are done;
To join me in a spree;
They look askance on me.
I hate to see them sobered down
The merry boys and true;
At pictures fancy drew;
Their puddings and their soups,
In formidable groups.
And though their wife perchance may have
A comely sort of face,
Conduct herself with grace -
The caution and the state;
How strangel they go to bed at ten,
And rise at half-past nine;
A pint or so of wine:
They very rarely dance,
Nor open a romance,
They talk, indeed, of politics,
Of taxes, and of crops,
They go about to shops;
And learned in butcher-meat,
For everything they eat.
To squall through thick and thin,
Small images of sin;
Ere half their days are told,
And they are counted old.
And for the friends I've lost,
Was chilled by early frost.
I'd have him shun my door,
Henceforth a bachelor.
TO A DROP OF DEW. THE VERY Rev. Henry ALFORD, D.D., DEAN OF CANTERBURY.
[Dr. Alford, justly celebrated as a Biblical critic and poet, was born near London in 1810. He was educated at Ilminster Grammar School, and Trinity College, Cambridge. His first volume of poems was published 1831; the second, “The School of the Heart, and other Poems,”' in 1835. From 1853 to 1857, Dr. Alford was officiating minister of Quebec-street Chapel, to which large congregations were attracted by his pulpit eloquence. In 1857 he was presented by the late Lord Palmerston to the Deanery of Canterbury. His grand work, his Greek Testament, in five volumes, was completed in 1861, the first having appeared in 1841. His poetry is elegant and glowing, and breathes a pure Christian spirit. An edition of his poems for the million" has been published by Messrs. Rivington.]
And the best that can be said,
(By permission of the Author.)
MR. SIMPKINSON'S MISADVENTURES AT
The Rev. RICHARD HARRIS BARAAN.
'Twas in Margate last July, I walk'd upon the pier, I saw a little vulgar boy-I said, “What make you
here? The gloom upon your youthful cheek speaks any
thing but joy; Again I said, “What make you here, you little vulgar
boy ? "
He frowned, that little vulgar boy,-he deemed I meant
to scoffAnd when the little heart is big, a little "sets it off;" He put his finger in his mouth, his little bosom rose He had no little handkerchief to wipe his little nose !
“ Hark! don't you hear, my little man ?-it's striking
nine,” I said, “An hour when all good little boys and girls should be
in bed. Run home and get your supper, else your ma' will
scold- oh! fie! It's very wrong indeed for little boys to stand and The tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring, His bosom "throbb’d with agony,—he cried like