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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.

"Then I vowed to visit the earth, and give

"New life to each rosy flower, "Bidding each drooping blossom live

"To deck the angel's bower."

As the snow-flake spake; the flowers, that lay

All withering on the ground,
Bloomed with the blush of a new-bom day,

And brightness reigned around.

Then the angel said, "If thou'lt stay with me,

"Sweet pitying spirit of air, "A beauteous form I'll give to thee,

"Than all these flowers more fair."

Waving her hand, there rose to view,
In the place where the snow-flake came,

A pure white flower, fresh crowned with dew;
And the Snow-drop is its name.

THE CAPTIVE CHIEF.

BY WILLIAM PITT PALMER.

Pale was the hue of his faded cheek,
As it leaned on its cold damp pillow;

And deep the heave of its troubled breast,
As the lift of the ocean billow:

For he thought of the days when his restless foot
Through the pathless forest bounded,

And the festive throng by the hunting-fire,
Where the chase-song joyously sounded.

He had stood in the deadly ambuscade,

While his warriors were falling around him; He had stood unmoved at the torturing stake,

Where the foe in his wrath had bound him; He had mocked at pain in every form—

Had joyed in the post of danger; But his spirit was crushed by the dungeon's gloom,

And the chain of the ruthless stranger.

A ROUND.

BY J. K. PAULDING.

Marriage is like a flaming candle-light
Placed in the window on a winter's night,
Inviting all the insects of the air
To come and singe their pretty ringlets there—
Those that are out, butt heads against the pane,
Those that are in, butt to get out again.

SLEEP ON.

BY JOHN 0. SARGENT.

Sleep on—sleep happily on,

Untroubled by the cares of day,
While thy free spirit wings its way
Then to me!

Dream on—but dream of me!

As all my dreams of dear delight,
Through the sweet slumbers of the night,
Are of thee!

HER LOVER DIED.

BY. J. G. WHITTIER.

Heb lover died. Away from her,
The ocean-girls his requiem sang,

And smoothed his dreamless sepulchre
Where the tall coral branches sprang.

And it was told her how he strove
With death; but not from selfish fear:

'Twas the memory of her love
Which made existence doubly dear.

They told her how his fevered sleep

Revealed the phantom of his brain— He thought his love had come to keep

Her vigils at his couch of pain; And he would speak in his soft tone,

And stretch his arms to clasp the air, And then awaken with a moan,

And weep that there was nothing there.

And when he bowed himself at last

Beneath the spoiler's cold eclipse, Even as the weary spirit passed,

Her name was on his marble lips. She heard the tale; she did not weep;

It was too strangely sad for tears; And so she kept it for the deep

Rememberings of after years.

She poured one lone and plaintive wail

For the loved dead—it was her last— Like harp-tones dying, on the gale

Her minstrelsy of spirit passed: And she became an altered one,

Forgetful of her olden shrine, As if her darkened soul had done

With all beneath the fair sunshine.

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