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And the rich pictures with their dark old tints
Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things
Seem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel,
The dark-eyed, spiritual Isabel
Was leaning on her harp, and I had stay'd
To whisper what I could not when the crowd
Hung on her look like worshipers. I knelt,
And with the fervor of a lip unused
To the cool breath of reason, told my love.
There was no answer, and I took the hand
That rested on the strings, and press'd a kiss
Upon it unforbidden--and again
Besought her, that this silent evidence
That I was not indifferent to her heart,
Might have the seal of one sweet syllable.
I kiss'd the small white fingers as I spoke,
And she withdrew them gently, and upraised
Her forehead from its resting-place, and look'd
Earnestly on me-She had been asleep!

LOVE IN A COTTAGE.

N. P. WILLIS.

They may talk of love in a cottage,

And bowers of trellised vine-
Of nature bewitchingly simple,

And milkmaids half divine;
They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping

In the shade of a spreading tree,
And a walk in the fields at morning,

By the side of a footstep free!

But give me a sly flirtation

By the light of a chandelierWith music to play in the pauses,

And nobody very near : Or a seat on a silken sofa,

With a glass of pure old wine, And mamma too blind to discover

The small white hand in mine.

Your love in a cottage is hungry,

Your vine is a nest for flies—
Your milkmaid shocks the Graces,

And simplicity talks of pies !
You lie down to your shady slumber

And wake with a bug in your ear,
And your damsel that walks in the morning

Is shod like a mountaineer.

True love is at home on a carpet,

And mightily likes his ease-
And true love has an eye for a dinner,

And starves beneath shady trees.
His wing is the fan of a lady,

His foot's an invisible thing,
And his arrow is tipp'd with a jewel,

And shot from a silver string.

TO HELEN IN A HUFF.

N. P. WILLIS.

Nay, lady, one frown is enough

In a life as soon over as this-
And though minutes seem long in a huff,

They ’re minutes 'tis pity to miss !
The smiles you imprison so lightly

Are reckon'd, like days in eclipse;
And though you may smile again brightly,
You 've lost so much light from your lips !

Pray, lady, smile!

The

cup that is longest untasted May be with our bliss running o'er, And, love when we will, we have wasted

An age in not loving before !
Perchance Cupid's forging a fetter

To tie us together some day,
And, just for the chance, we had better
Be laying up love, I should say!

Nay, lady, smile !

THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

I WROTE some lines, once on a time,

In wondrous merry mood,
And thought, as usual, men would say

They were exceeding good.

They were so queer, so very queer,

I laughed as I would die;
Albeit, in the general way,

A sober man am I.

I called my servant, and he came;

How kind it was of him,
To mind a slender man like me,

He of the mighty limb!

“These to the printer," I exclaimed,

And, in my humorous way,
I added (as a trifling jest),

“ There 'll be the devil to pay.”

He took the paper, and I watched,
And saw him

peep

within;
At the first line he read, his face

Was all upon the grin.

He read the next; the grin grew broad,

And shot from ear to ear;
He read the third; a chuckling noise

I now began to hear.

The fourth; he broke into a roar;

The fifth ; his waistband split;
The sixth; he burst five buttons off,

And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,

I watched that wretched man,
And since, I never dare to write

As funny as I can.

THE BRIEFLESS BARRISTER.

A BALLAD.

JOHN G. SAXE.
An Attorney was taking a turn,

In shabby habiliments drest;
His coat it was shockingly worn,

And the rust had invested his vest.

His breeches had suffered a breach,

His linen and worsted were worse;
He had scarce a whole crown in his hat,

And not half-a-crown in his purse.

And thus as he wandered along,

A cheerless and comfortless elf,
He sought for relief in a song,

Or complainingly talked to himself:
“Unfortunate man that I am !

I've never a client but grief;
The case is, I've no case at all,

And in brief, I've ne'er had a brief !

"I've waited and waited in vain,

Expecting an opening to find,
Where an honest young lawyer might gain

Some reward for the toil of his mind.

« 'Tis not that I'm wanting in law,

Or lack an intelligent face,
That others have cases to plead,

While I have to plead for a case.

“O, how can a modest young man

E’er hope for the smallest progression-
The profession's already so full

Of lawyers so full of profession !"
While thus he was strolling around,

His eye accidentally fell
On a very deep hole in the ground,

And he sighed to himself, “It is well I"

To curb his emotions, he sat

On the curb-stone the space of a minute,
Then cried, “ Here's an opening at last!"

And in less than a jiffy was in it!
Next morning twelve citizens came

('Twas the coroner bade them attend),
To the end that it might be determined

How the man had determined his end! "The man was a lawyer, I hear,"

Quoth the foreman who sat on the corse; “A lawyer? Alas !” said another,

"Undoubtedly he died of remorse !"
A third said, "He knew the deceased,

An attorney well versed in the laws,
And as to the cause of his death,

'Twas no doubt from the want of a cause."
The jury decided at length,

After solemnly weighing the matter,
“That the lawyer was drownded, because

He could not keep his head above water!"

SONNET TO A CLAM.

JOIN G. SAXE. Dum tacent clamant.

INGLORIOUS FRIEND! most confident I am

Thy life is one of very little ease;

Albeit men mock thee with their similes
And prate of being “ happy as a clam !"
What though thy shell protects thy fragile head

From the sharp bailiffs of the briny sea ?

Thy valves are, sure, no safety-valves to thee,
While rakes are free to desecrate thy bed,
And bear thee off--as foemen take their spoil —

Far from thy friends and family to roam;

Forced, like a Hessian, from thy native home,
To meet destruction in a foreign broil !

Though thou art tender, yet thy humble bard
Declares, 0 clam! thy case is shocking hard !

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