"There was a blight upon that race They one by one did fall; Sorrow and sin had stricken them, "There was but one of all her house "And when, upon her bed of death, "Ready to pass away to God, "Take, take, my friend, this little child,' Said she, when I am dead; And, as thou know'st I should declare, "Thou know'st the follies of this house, Thou know'st its sin,' quoth she, 'And from such folly and such sin "She died !-the place was desolate-Her kindred all were gone There was but I, her ghostly friend, "Their thriftless lives had made thee poor, Their shame thy name had spentSorely run out were all thy lands, And mortgaged all thy rent. "I trained thee in this sober wise, That thou might'st grow up innocent, "Thy manors now lay far and wide, And old and young, my Magdalene, "Ere long, thou wilt have friends enow, "It has been stripped and desolate, "Be patient yet, my Magdalene; Please God, the time shall be, When blameless mirth and merry friends WOMAN AND FAME. MRS. HEMANS. Happy-happier far than thou, THOU hast a charmed cup, O Fame! Away! to me-a woman-bring Sweet waters from affection's spring. Thou hast green laurel-leaves that twine Into so proud a wreath; For that resplendent gift of thine, Heroes have smiled in death. Give me from some kind hand a flower, The record of one happy hour! Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone Can bid each life-pulse beat, As when a trumpet's note hath blown, Calling the brave to meet: But mine, let mine-a woman's breast, By words of home-born love be bless'd. A hollow sound is in thy song, A mockery in thine eye, To the sick heart that doth but long For kindly looks to cheer it on, Fame, Fame! thou canst not be the stay The cool fresh fountain, in the day Of the soul's feverish need; Where must the lone one turn or flee?- LITTLE FLORA'S SONG. T. K. HERVEY. WILL you not buy my flowers? I have been on the primrose hill; I have been where the lily builds silver bowers, On the edge of the singing rill. I have followed the bee where the sallow grows By the amaranth dim and pale; And I tracked the butterfly's wing to the rose, In her palace of the vale! Choose what you love the best! All culled in the cool fresh morn, For I wakened the lark from the tulip's breast, In the depths of the waving corn! A rainbow might have dyed this wreath It has every scent and hue That is born of the west wind's wooing breath, Or waked by the early dew. Fragrant and sweet and fair! Yet, they neither toil nor spin; But they have not known the touch of care Or the pomp and pride of Solomon, Is not my calling sweet? To dwell amid beautiful things! And birds-like flowers with wings! WE MET WHEN LIFE AND HOPE WERE NEW. A. A. WATTS. WE met when life and hope were new, Ours were the light and bounding hearts, The bloom, that when it once departs, |