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XX. At which he rose up in his anger, • Why, now, “Love's a virtue for heroes !-as white as the you no longer are fair!
snow on high hills, Why, now, you no longer are fatal, but ugly and And immortal as every great soul is that strug. hateful, I swear."
gles, endures, and fulfils.
At which she laughed out in her scor, —“These “I love my Walter profoundly, — you, Mande, men ! O, these men overnice,
though you faltered a week, Who are shocked if a color not virtuous is frankly For the sake of ... what was it ? an eyebrow ! or, put on by a vice.”
less still, a mole on a cheek?
“ And since, when all's said, you 're too noble to bring us your vices so near
stoop to the frivolous cant That we smell them ! You think in our presence About crimes irresistible, virtues that swindle, a thought 't would defame is to hear !
betray, and supplant,
“What reason had you, and what right, - I ap
“I determined to prove to yourself that, whate’er peal to your soul from my life,
you might dream or avow To find me too fair as a woman? Why, sir, I am By illusion, you wanted precisely no more of me
than you have now. pure, and a wife.
“There ! Look me full in the face !- in the face. “Is the day-star too fair up above you ? It burns Understand, if you can, you not. Dare you imply
That the eyes of such women as I am are clean I brushed you more close than the star does, when
as the palm of a man. Walter had set me as high?
• Drop his hand, you insult him. Avoid us for “If a man finds a woman too fair, he means sim
fear we should cost you a scar, ply adapted too much
You take us for harlots, I tell you, and not for To uses unlawful and fatal. The praise ! — shall the women we are. I thank you for such ?
“You wronged me : but then I considered... “Too fair?—not unless you misuse us! and surely there's Walter! And so at the end, if, once in a while,
I vowed that he should not be mulcted, by me, You attain to it, straightway you call us no longer
in the hand of a friend. too fair, but too vile.
“ Have I hurt you indeed ? We are quits then. “A moment, -- I pray your attention ! — I have Nay, friend of my Walter, be mine! a poor word in my head
Come, Dora, my darling, my angel, and help me I must utter, though womanly custom would set to ask him to dine."
it down briter unşaid.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE.
“You grew, sir, pale to impertinence, once when
I showed you a ring.
ter! I've broken the thing.
“You did me the honor, perhaps, to be moved at
my side now and then In the senses,
-- a vice, I have heard, which is common to beasts and some men.
("In the Parish of St. Neots, Cornwall, is a well, arched over with the robes of four kinds of trees, - withy, oak, elm, and ashand dedicated to St. Keyne. The reported virtue of the water is this, that, whether husband or wife first drink thereof, they get the mastery thereby." – FULLER.)
A WELL there is in the West country,
And a clearer one never was seen ; There is not a wife in the West country
But has heard of the well of St. Keyne.
An oak and an elm tree stand beside,
And behind does an ash-tree grow, And a willow from the bank above
Droops to the water below. A traveller came to the well of St. Keyne;
Pleasant it was to his eye, For from cock-crow he had been travelling,
And there was not a cloud in the sky. He drank of the water so cool and clear,
For thirsty and hot was he, And he sat down upon the bank,
Under the willow-tree.
“I have left a good woman who never was here,”
The stranger he made reply ; “But that my draught should be better for that,
I pray you answer me why.” “St. Keyne, "quoth the countryman,“manya time
Drank of this crystal well,
She laid on the water a spell.
Shall drink before his wife,
For he shall be master for life.
Heaven help the husband then !"
And drank of the waters again. “You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes ?"
He to the countryman said. But the countryman smiled as the stranger spake,
And sheepishly shook his head. “I hastened, as soon as the wedding was done,
And left my wife in the porch.
For she took a bottle to church.”
There came a man from the nighboring town
At the well to fill his pail, On the well-side he rested it,
And bade the stranger hail. “Now art thou a bachelor, stranger ?" quoth he,
"For an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drank this day
That ever thou didst in thy life.
In Cornwall ever been ?
She has drank of the well of St. Keyne."
Where the heron waves his wings so wide, And the linnet sings so lonely!
Sing Gille machree, &c.
I might have said,
My mountain maid,
True hearts to curse
With tyrant force
When thoughts of home shall find her!
Around my ivied porch shall spring
The village-church among the trees,
Sing Gille machree, &c.
THE QUIET LIFE.
HAPPY the man, whose wish and care
In his own ground.
O no, I said,
My own dear maid,
That heart of thine
Shall ne'er repine
A dreary fate be mine, love ;
Sing Gille machree, &c.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
In winter, fire.
Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
Quiet by day,
Sound sleep by night ; study and ease
Far, far away,
By night and day,
And golden gains
Repaid my pains
Thy father welcomed me, love ;
Sing Gille machree
Sit down by me,
This hearth 's our own,
Our hearts are one,
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown ;
A SONG FOR THE “HEARTH AND
DARK is the night, and fitful and drearily
Rushes the wind like the waves of the sea :
King, king, crown me the king :
MINE be a cot beside the hill ;
The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
Flashes the firelight upon the dear faces,
Dearer and dearer and onward we go,
King, king, crown me the king :
Without disease, the healthful life;
The household of continuance ;
The meaņ diet, no delicate fare ;
True wisdom joined with simpleness ; The night dischargéd of all care,
Where wine the wit may not oppress ;
Flashes the lovelight, increasing the glory, Beaming from bright eyes with warmth of the
soul, Telling of trust and content the sweet story, Lifting the shadows that over us roll.
King, king, crown me the king:
Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king ! Richer than miser with perishing treasure,
Served with a service no conquest could bring ; Happy with fortune that words cannot measure, Light-hearted I on the hearthstone can sing. King, king, crown me the king : Home is the kingilom, and Love is the king.
REV. WILLIAM RANKIN DURYEA.
A SHEPHERD'S LIFE.
THIRD PART OF HENRY VI."
Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd, The vain, the wealthy, and the proud,
In folly's maze advance ; Though singularity and pride Be called our choice, we'll step aside,
Nor join the giddy dance.
From the gay world we'll oft retire To our own family and fire,
Where love our hours employs ; No noisy neighbor enters here, No intermeddling stranger near,
To spoil our heartfelt joys.
King Henry. O God! methinks, it were a
happy life, . To be no better than a homely swain ; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes how they run; How many make the hour full complete ; How many hours bring about the day ; How many days will finish up the year; How many years a mortal man may live. When this is known, then to divide the times, So many hours must I tend my flock; So many hours must I take my rest; So many hours must I contemplate ; So many hours must I sport myself; So many days my ewes have been with young ; So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean ; So many years ere I shall shear the fleece : Sominutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years, Passed over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah, what a life were this ! how sweet ! how lovely ! Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroidered canopy To kings that fear their subjects' treachery?
If solid happiness we prize,
And they are fools who roam ;
And that dear hut, our home.
Our portion is not large, indeed; But then how little do we need,
'For nature's calls are few ; In this the art of living lies, To want no more than may suffice,
And make that little do.
We 'll therefore relish with content Whate'er kind Providence has sent,
Nor aim beyond our power ; For, if our stock be very small, 'T is prudence to enjoy it all,
Nor lose the present hour.
THE MEANS TO ATTAIN HAPPY LIFE.
MARTIAL, the things that do attain
The happy life be these, I find, The riches left, not got with pain ;
The fruitful ground, the quiet mind, The equal friend; no grudge, no strife ;
No charge of rule, nor governance ;
To be resigned when ills betide,
And pleased with favors given, -
A WINTER'S EVENING HYMN TO MY
Meanwhile thou mellowest every word,
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
HOMESICK FOR THE COUNTRY.
O Thou of home the guardian Lar,
I'd kind o’like to have a cot
Five acres more or less,
'T would suit my taste, I guess, To have the porch with vines o'erhung,
With bells of pendant woodbine swung,
In every bell a bee ;
To solace mine and me,
Of wood-birds singing sweet ;
As who would say, “i'T is those, I ween, Whom lifelong armor-chafe makes lean
That win the laurel" ; While the gray snow-storm, held aloof, To softest outline rounds the roof, Or the rude North with baffled strain Shoulders the frost-starred window-pane ! Now the kind nymph to Bacchus borne By Morpheus' daughter, she that seems Gifted upon her natal morn By him with fire, by her with dreams. Nicotia, dearer to the Muse Than all the grapes' bewildering juice, We worship, unforbid of thee ; And, as her incense floats and curls In airy spires and wayward whirls, Or poises on its tremulous stalk A flower of frailest revery, So winds and loiters, idly free, The current of unguided talk, Now laughter-rippled, and now caught In smooth dark pools of deeper thought.
Such should be my retreat,
(I have some two or three.)
I KNEW BY THE SMOKE THAT SO
I KNEW by the smoke that so gracefully curled
Above the green elms, that a cottage was near, And I said, “If there 's peace to be found in the
world, A heart that is humble might hope for it here :"