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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.

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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?


Her eyes blazed upon him “ And you ! You

“ 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.



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“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.






You grew, sir, pale to impertinence, once when

I showed you a ring.
You kissed my fan when I dropped it. No mat-

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,
And before the angel summoned her

She laid on the water a spell.
“If the husband of this gifted well

Shall drink before his wife,
A happy man thenceforth is he,

For he shall be master for life.
“ But if the wife should drink of it first,

Heaven help the husband then !"
The stranger stooped to the well of St. Keyne,

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.
But i' faith, she had been wiser than me,

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.
"Or has your good woman, if one you have,

In Cornwall ever been ?
For an if she have, I'll venture my life

She has drank of the well of St. Keyne."


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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,
A father's right was never given

True hearts to curse

With tyrant force
That have been blest in heaven.
But then, I said, “In after years,

When thoughts of home shall find her!
My love may mourn with secret tears
Her friends thus left behind her."


Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.

The village-church among the trees,
Where first our marriage-vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze
And point with taper spire to heaven.

Sing Gille machree, &c.



HAPPY the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air

In his own ground.

O no, I said,

My own dear maid,
For me, though all forlorn, forever,

That heart of thine

Shall ne'er repine
O'er slighted duty,
From home and thee though wandering far,

A dreary fate be mine, love ;
I'd rather live in endless war,
Than buy my peace with thine, love.

Sing Gille machree, &c.


Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire ;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

In winter, fire.

soft away

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years sli
In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night ; study and ease
Together mixed ; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please

With meditation.

Far, far away,

By night and day,
I toiled to win a golden treasure ;

And golden gains

Repaid my pains
In fair and shining measure.
I sought again my native land,

Thy father welcomed me, love ;
I poured my gold into his hand,
And my guerdon found in thee, love ;

Sing Gille machree

Sit down by me,
We now are joined, and ne'er shall sever ;

This hearth 's our own,

Our hearts are one,
And peace is ours forever.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown ;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a sto
Tell where I lie.






DARK is the night, and fitful and drearily

Rushes the wind like the waves of the sea :
Little care I, as here I sit cheerily,
Wife at my side and my baby on knee.

King, king, crown me the king :
Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king!

MINE be a cot beside the hill ;
A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear ;
A willowy brook that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest ;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Flashes the firelight upon the dear faces,

Dearer and dearer and onward we go,
Forces the shadow behind us, and places
Brightness around us with warmth in the glow.

King, king, crown me the king :
Home is the kingdom, and Love is 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.

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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,
Within our breast this jewel lies,

And they are fools who roam ;
The world hath nothing to bestow,
From our own selves our bliss must flow,

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.


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,
Patient when favors are denied,

And pleased with favors given, -
Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part,
This is that incense of the heart,
Whose fragrance smells to heaven.




Meanwhile thou mellowest every word,
A sweetly unobtrusive third :
For thou hast magic beyond wine,
To unlock natures each to each ;
The unspoken thought thou canst divine;
Thou fillest the pauses of the speech
With whispers that to dream-land reach,
And frozen fancy-springs unchain
In Arctic outskirts of the brain ;
Sun of all inınost confidences !
To thy rays doth the heart unclose
Its formal calyx of pretences,
That close against rude day's offences,
And open its shy midnight rose.



O Thou of home the guardian Lar,
And when our earth hath wandered far
Into the cold, and deep snow covers
The walks of our New England lovers,
Their sweet secluded evening-star !
"T was with thy rays the English Muse
Ripened her mild domestie hues :
'T was by thy flicker that she conned
The fireside wisdom that enrings
With light from heaven familiar things ;
By thee she found the homely faith
In whose mild eyes thy comfort stay'th,
When Death, extinguishing his torch,
Gropes for the latch-string in the porch ;
The love that wanders not beyond
His earliest nest, but sits and sings
While children smooth his patient wings :
Therefore with thee I love to read
Our brave old poets : at thy touch how stirs
Life in the withered words ! how swift recede
Time's shadows ! and how glows again
Through its dead mass the incandescent verse,
As when upon the anvils of the brain
It glittering lay, cyclopically wrought
By the fast-throbbing hammers of the poet's

Thou murmurest, too, divinely stirred,
The aspirations unattained,
The rhythins so rathe and delicate,
They bent and strained
And broke, beneath the sombre weight
Of any airiest mortal word.

I'd kind o’like to have a cot
Fixed on some sunny slope ; a spot

Five acres more or less,
With maples, cedars, cherry-trees,
And poplars whitening in the breeze.

'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 ;
And round my latticed window spread
A clump of roses, white and red.

To solace mine and me,
I kind o' think I should desire
To hear around the lawn a choir

Of wood-birds singing sweet ;
And in a dell I'd have a brook,
Where I might sit and read my book.

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,
Far from the city's crowd and noise :
There would I rear the girls and boys,

(I have some two or three.)
And if kind Heaven should bless my store
With five or six or seven more,
How happy I would be !




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 :"

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