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I'd be a butterfly born in a bower,
Where roses and lilies and violets meet.

I'd be a Butterfly.
Oh no! we never mention her, –

Her name is never heard ;
My lips are now forbid to speak
That once familiar word.

Oh no! we never mention her.
We met, - 't was in a crowd.

We met.
Gayly the troubadour
Touched his guitar.

Welcome me Home.
Why don't the men propose, Mamma ?
Why don't the men propose ?

Why don't the Men propose !
She wore a wreath of roses

The night that first we met. She wore a Wreath. Friends depart, and memory takes them

To her caverns, pure and deep. Teach me to forget. Tell me the tales that to me were so dear,

Long, long ago, long, long ago. Long, long ago.
The rose that all are praising

Is not the rose for me. The Rose that all are praising.
Oh pilot, 't is a fearful night!
There's danger on the deep.

The Pilot.
Fear not, but trust in Providence,
Wherever thou may'st be.

bid, Absence makes the heart grow fonder: 1

Isle of Beauty, fare thee well! Isle of Beauty.

1 I find that absence still increases love. - CHARLES HOPKINS : To C. C.

Distance sometimes endears friendship, and absence sweeteneth it. HOWELL: Familiar Letters, book i. sect. i. No. 6.



The mistletoe hung in the castle hall,
The holly-branch shone on the old oak wall.

The Mistletoe Bough.
Oh, I have roamed o'er many lands,

And many friends I've met;
Not one fair scene or kindly smile
Can this fond heart forget.

Oh, steer my Bark to Erin's Isle.

THOMAS DRUMMOND.: 1797-1840.

Property has its duties as well as its rights.?

Letter to the Landlords of Tipperary.


Whilst twilight's curtain spreading far,
Was pinned with a single star.

Death in Disguise. Line 227. (Boston edition, 1833.)

SAMUEL LOVER. 1797-1868.

A baby was sleeping,
Its mother was weeping.

The Angel's W’hisper. Reproof on her lips, but a smile in her eye. Rory O' More. For drames always go by conthraries, my dear." Ibid.

1 Captain Drummond was the inventor of the Drummond light.
2 DISRAELI: Sybil, book i. chap. xi.
8 Mrs. Child says: “He thus describes the closing day":

Now twilight lets her curtain down,

And pins it with a star. 4 See Scott, page 482.

5 See Middleton, page 172.

* Then here goes another," says he, “ to make sure, For there's luck in odd numbers,” says Rory O'More.

Rory 0 More, There was a place in childhood that I remember well, And there a voice of sweetest tone bright fairy tales did tell.

My Mother dear.
Sure the shovel and tongs
To each other belongs. Widow Machree.

THOMAS HOOD. 1798-1845.

There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,
In the cold grave, under the deep, deep sea,
Or in the wide desert where no life is found.

Sonnet. Silence.
We watch'd her breathing through the night,

Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.

The Death-Bed.
Our very hopes belied our fears,

Our fears our hopes belied ;
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

I remember, I remember
The fir-trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky;
It was a childish ignorance,
But now it is little joy
To know I'm farther off from heaven
Than when I was a boy.

I remember, I remember.

1 See Shakespeare, page 46.

She stood breast-high amid the corn
Clasp'd by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks.

When he is forsaken,

Wither'd and shaken,
What can an old man do but die ?

Spring it is cheery.
And there is even a happiness
That makes the heart afraid.

Ode to Melancholy.
There's not a string attuned to mirth
But has its chord in melancholy."

But evil is wrought by want of thought,
As well as want of heart.

The Lady's Dream
Oh would I were dead now,

To cover my


And have a good cry! A Table of Errata.
Straight down the crooked lane,

And all round the square. A Plain Direction.
For my part, getting up seems not so easy
By half as lying.

Morning Meditations.
A man that's fond precociously of stirring
Must be a spoon.

Seem'd washing his hands with invisible soap

In imperceptible water. Miss Kilmansegg. Her Christening.
O bed! O bed! delicious bed!
That heaven upon earth to the weary head ! Her Dream
He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way,
Tormenting himself with his prickles.


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1 See Burton, page 185.

Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!
Bright and yellow, hard and cold.

fler Moral. Spurn'd by the young, but hugg'd by the old To the very verge of the churchyard mould.

Ibid. How widely its agencies vary, — To save, to ruin, to curse, to bless, As even its minted coins express, Now stamp'd with the image of Good Queen Bess, And now of a Bloody Mary.

Ibid. Another tumble! That's his precious nose!

Parental Ode to my Infant Son.
Boughs are daily rifled

By the gusty thieves,
And the book of Nature
Getteth short of leaves.

The Season.
With fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags
Plying her needle and thread, -
Stitch! stitch! stitch!

The Song of the Shirt.
O men with sisters dear,

O men with mothers and wives,
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives ! 1

Sewing at once a double thread,
A shroud as well as a shirt.

O God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

No blessed leisure for love or hope,
But only time for grief.

My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread.


1 See Scott, page 493.

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