He took the goose upon his arm,

He utter'd words of scorning;

"So keep you cold, or keep you warm, It is a stormy morning."

The wild wind rang from park and plain,
And round the attics rumbled,
Till all the tables danced again,
And half the chimneys tumbled.

The glass blew in, the fire blew out,
The blast was hard and harder.
Her cap blew off, her gown blew up,

And a whirlwind clear'd the larder;

And while on all sides breaking loose
Her household fled the danger,
Quoth she, "The Devil take the goose,
And God forget the stranger!"

BREAK, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play!

O well for the sailor lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill;

But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

COOKE.

FLORENCE VANE.

I LOVED thee long and dearly,
Florence Vane;

My life's bright dream, and early
Hath come again;

I renew in my fond vision,
My heart's dear pain,
My hope, and thy derision,

Florence Vane.

The ruin lone and hoary,

The ruin old,

Where thou didst mark my story,

At even told,—

That spot-the hues Elysian

Of sky and plain

I treasure in my vision,

Florence Vane.

Thou wast lovelier than the roses

In their prime;

Thy voice excelled the closes

Of sweetest rhyme;

Thy heart was as a river

Without a main.

Would I had loved thee never,

Florence Vane!

But, fairest, coldest wonder!

Thy glorious clay

Lieth the green sod under

Alas the day!

And it boots not to remember

Thy disdain

To quicken love's pale ember,

Florence Vane.

The lilies of the valley

By young graves weep,
The pansies love to dally

Where maidens sleep;

May their bloom, in beauty vying,
Never wane

Where thine earthly part is lying,
Florence Vane!

YOUNG ROSALIE LEE.

I LOVE to forget ambition,

And hope, in the mingled thought Of valley, and wood, and meadow, Where, whilom, my spirit caught Affection's holiest breathings—

Where under the skies, with me Young Rosalie roved, aye drinking From joy's bright Castaly.

I think of the valley and river,

Of the old wood bright with blossoms;

Of the pure and chastened gladness

Upspringing in our bosoms.

I think of the lonely turtle

So tongued with melancholy;

Of the hue of the drooping moonlight,
And the starlight pure and holy.