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MERCUTIO'S LOVE LINES.

SOFTEST foot upon the rushes-
Softest foot upon the rushes;
Her darling foot will press a rose,
Yet never kill the flower it crushes.

Whiter hand no lover kisses—
Whiter hand no lover kisses;
Soft between her breasts of snow
Nestles love and all his blisses.

Eyes, as dark as violet shadows—
Eyes, as dark as violet shadows;
A smile as sweet, and gay, and soft
As April sunshine on the meadows.

Voice like whispering woods in summer-
Voice like whispering woods in summer;
Soft and low as June winds blow

In the warm midnights of summer.

REGRETS.

One by one-yes! still they say-
So the hours will die away,
So the Aprils yield to May.

Long ago-yes! very long-
Then I cared for mirth and song,
Then I grappled with the throng.
Dead and gone-yes! gone away,
As the rose melts into clay,
When the frost the blossoms slay.
Come and go-ah! so we do,
Passing as the flowers and dew-
Bitter saying, yet too true.

'Life is short-and art is long;'
'Tis the burden of the song,
We're repeating all day long.
Time flies-yes! it never sleeps,
Never mourns, and never weeps;
Dumb and calm the tyrant keeps.
Over now-yes! boyhood—youth,
But not my courage, not my sooth—
No, God help me! not my truth.

PLACE POUR LES GRENADIERS!

(A song in the Invalides.)

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I'VE heard the war drum's tumult
'Mid snow, and sea, and sand;
I've tracked the battered eagle
Through hot and frozen land;
And when the fire balls, bursting,
Tore out a bloody way,

I always called with a lusty shout,
"Place pour les grenadiers!"

We trod down Egypt's mamelukes,
And all their silk and gold;
We smote the pride of Prussia
In battles manifold:

And when old surly Blucher

Before our steel gave way,

I called to our men with a lusty shout, "Place pour les grenadiers."

The white coats at Marengo

Were wasted in our flame;

Fire flew, and blasted them as we
Wrapped in the hot smoke came.
Now when the pulsing cannon
Proclaims the break of day,

I always shout from my bed in the ward, "Place pour les grenadiers !"

THE FAMILY CONCERT.

THE blackbird pipes upon the bough
Of the oak tree twisted strong;
The fledglings five in the clay-built nest
Listen unto his song,

And care not though their father be
In time and cadence wrong.

The wind blows half the tune away
(Sing merry, and sing loud);
It pipes a noisier tune the wind,

Lashing the lagging cloud;

But still the birds to their father's song Are listening glad and proud.

THE END

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