I will explain."

"Say what, my love

"This wolf, the story goes,

Deceived poor grandam, and ate her up:

What is the moral here? Have all our grandams
Been first devour'd by love?"

"Let us go in

;

The air grows cold; you are a forward chit."

LENORE.

E. A. POE.

АH! broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown for

ever!

Let the bell toll!-a saintly soul floats on the Stygian

river;

And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?-weep now, or

never more!

See, on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love Lenore!

Come, let the burial rite be read, the funeral song be

sung;

An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so

young,

A dirge for her, the doubly dead, in that she died so

young.

"Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth, and hated her for her pride,

And when she fell in feeble health ye blessed her, that she died!

How shall the ritual, then, be read-the requiem how

be sung,

By you by yours, the evil eye-by yours, the slanderous tongue,

That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"

Peccavimus; but rave not thus; and let a Sabbath

song

Go up to God so solemnly, the dead may feel no

wrong;

The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside,

Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride;

For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies,

The life upon her yellow hair, but not within her

eyes,

The life still there upon her hair, the death upon her

eyes.

"Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,

But waft the angel on her flight with a pæan of old

days.

Let no bell toll; lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,

Should catch the note as it doth float up from the damned earth.

To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven;

From hell unto a high estate far up within the heaven; From grief and groan to a golden throne beside the King of Heaven."

THE BASHFUL WOOER.

JEAN INGELOW.

My neighbour White-we met to-day-
He always had a cheerful way,

As if he breathed at ease;

My neighbour White lives down the glade,
And I live higher, in the shade

Of my old walnut-trees.

So many lads and lasses small,
To feed them all, to clothe them all,
Must surely tax his wit;

I see his thatch when I look out,
His branching roses creep about,
And vines half smother it.

There white-haired urchins climb his eaves,
And little watch-fires heap with leaves,
And milky filberts hoard;

And there his oldest daughter stands
With downcast eyes and skilful hands
Before her ironing-board.

She comforts all her mother's days,
And with her sweet obedient ways
She makes her labour light;
So sweet to hear, so fair to see!
Oh, she is much too good for me,
That lovely Lettice White!

"Tis hard to feel oneself a fool!

With that same lass I went to school

I then was great and wise;
She read upon an easier book,
And I-I never cared to look
Into her shy blue eyes.

And now I know they must be there,
Sweet eyes, behind those lashes fair,
That will not raise their rim:
If maids be shy, he cures who can;
But if a man be shy-a man-
Why then the worse for him!

My mother cries, "For such a lad
A wife is easy to be had,

And always to be found;
A finer scholar scarce can be,
And for a foot and leg," says she,

"He beats the country round!

"My handsome boy must stoop his head To clear her door whom he would wed." Weak praise, but fondly sung!

"Oh mother! scholars sometimes fail-
And what can foot and leg avail
To him that wants a tongue?”
When by her ironing-board I sit,
Her little sisters round me flit,

And bring me forth their store;
Dark cluster grapes of dusty blue,
And small sweet apples bright of hue
And crimson to the core.

But she abideth silent, fair,
All shaded by her flaxen hair
The blushes come and go;

I look, and no more can I speak
Than the red sun that on her cheek

Smiles as he lieth low.

Sometimes the roses by the latch
Or scarlet vine-leaves from her thatch
Come sailing down like birds;
When from their drifts her board I clear,
She thanks me, but I scarce can hear
The shyly uttered words.

Oft have I wooed sweet Lettice White -
By daylight and by candlelight,
When we two were apart.
Some better day come on apace,
And let me tell her face to face,

Maiden, thou hast my heart."

How gently rock yon poplars high
Against the reach of primrose sky
With heaven's pale candles stored!
She sees them all, sweet Lettice White
I'll e'en go sit again to-night

Beside her ironing board!

(By permission of the Author.)

THE MANAGER'S PIG.

DOUGLAS JERROLD.

ARISTIDES TINFOIL, it is our fixed belief, was intended by nature either for lawn sleeves or ermined robes: he was, we doubt it not, sent into this world as an embryo bishop, or a lord chief-justice in posse. Such, we are convinced, was the benignant purpose of nature: but the cruel despotism of worldly circumstance relentlessly crossed the fair design; and Tinfoil, with a heart of honey and a head of iron, was only a player-or, we should rather say, a master among players. Tinfoil might have preached charity sermons till tears should have flowed and flowed again: no matter; he acted the benevolent old men to the sobs and spasms of a crowded audience. He might, with singular efficacy, have passed sentence of death on coiners and sheep-stealers; circumstances, however, confined his mild reproof to sceneshifters, bill stickers, Cupids at one shilling per night, and white muslin Graces.

"Where is Mr. Moriturus ?" asked Tinfoil, chagrined at the untoward absence of his retainer. "Where is he?"

"Ill, sir," was the melancholy answer; "very ill." "Ill!" exclaimed Tinfoil, in a tone of anger, quickly subsiding into mild remonstrance. "Ill!-why-why doesn't the good man die at once !”

A pretty budding girl had, unhappily, listened to the silvery tongue of a rival manager. "Take her from the villain !" exclaimed Tinfoil, to the sorrowing parent; "bring her here, and then-then I'll tell you what I'll do."

“Dear, kind Mr. Tinfoil, what will you do?"

แ "I'll bring her out, sir-bring her out in-" and here the manager named a play in which the horrors of seduction are painted in bold colours for the indignant virtuous : "I'll bring her out in that, sir, as a particu