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WOMAN! I'VE HELD THY HAND IN MINE.

BY JOHN NEAL.

Woman! I've held thy hand in mine,

And looked into thine eyes-
And seen, I dare not tell thee what-

Nor anger, nor surprise :
No bleaching of thy crimson lip;

No trembling of thy breath;
No flushing of that lofty brow-

Immoveable as death.

And yet, when first I touched thy hand,

And looked into thine eyes,
I saw thee tremble, and their hue

Change like the changing skies :
I felt the heave-I saw the swell

Of maiden tumult, where,
I see but now, I feel but now

Untroubled thoughts in prayer.

Thy spirit hushed and motionless,

Thy very breathing strange-
Thy touch, no longer passionate,

Oh woman! what a change !

I look, and lo! a thousand wings

Are gathering round aboutAnd from thy coronet of fire,

The stars are dropping out!

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Thou tremblest !-ah!-a tear!-a tear!

And if I read thee right, Though married, thou wouldst have me near

Thee, in the coming night!
Well ! be it so! I know not why,

If there's another life-
A man of generous heart may not

Love tenderly- his wife!

THE MELLOW HORN.

BY GEORGE W. HYATT.

Ar dawn, Aurora gaily breaks,

In all her proud attire,
Majestic o'er the glassy lakes,

Reflecting liquid fire;
All nature smiles, to usher in

The blushing queen of morn,
And huntsmen with the day begin

To wind the Mellow Horn.

At eve when gloomy shades obscure

The tranquil shepherd's cot, When tinkling bells are heard no more,

And daily toil forgot; 'Tis then the sweet enchanting note,

On zephyrs gently borne, With witching cadence seems to float

Around the Mellow Horn.

At night when all is hushed and drear,

And starlight on the deep; When lambkins housed from every fear,

Are lulled in balmy sleep; 'Tis then the plighted lover flies,

With flaxen locks unshorn, Beneath the cottage window sighs,

And winds the Mellow Horn.

THE SNOW DROP.

BY MISS HELEN MATHEWS.

A SNOW-FLAKE fell from the summer sky,

As though it had burst its chain, Where it lies enthralled in the realms on high

Until winter appears again.

It chanced to fall in a garden fair,

Where every flowret grew, Watched by a guardian angel's care,

Who bathed them all in dew;

It rested near a blooming rose,

That shed its fragrance round, Folding its leaves in soft repose

To a fountain's silvery sound.

The angel smiled on it resting there,

And thus addressed the snow :“What dost thou here, fair child of air,

While the summer sunbeams glow ?”

The snow-flake said, “Thy flowers have died,

From the scorching sun on high; “ And, when above, I have often sighed “To see their colours fly.

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