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The next had lived to his manhood's prime;

And he admired all her thoughts so wise ;
H н gracefully, fit place and time,

Counsels sage to her lips would rise.
Her woman's wit would silence strife-
Oh ! how dear was his prudent wife !

The last is an older, life-worn man ;

And he delights in her tender heart,
Which loveth as only woman's can,

And cheers him with woman's heaven-taught art.
This loving heart is all his own-
Oh! how dear has his fond wife grown !

In youth I saw but a maiden fair ;

And finding beauty I sought no more,
But loved and wedded as youth will dare,

And little knew of the prize I bore.
Proud was I 'midst

my fellow-men,
Dear to me was my young wife then.


But as life advanced and cares came thick

On every side came pressing round,
Till my wearied heart grew faint and sick-

Ever her at my side I found,
With words of counsel wise and free;
Dearer still was she then to me.

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Her hair is grey, and her sweet blue eyes,

Though loving still, are no longer bright;
And I list not now for her thoughts so wise;

But far stronger ties our hearts unite.
Dear through life has she ever been;
Dearest now at its close serene.

20. THE SONG OF THE DISCONSOLATE ONE. (To several old tunes, because composed in a heated ball-room, where he

could not get any fresh air.)

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'Mid the moon's fairy glow shone a soul-charming scene; The clouds were all silver, the skies were all blue,

And the shores were all waving with woodlands of green.
In a boat-shell of pearl sailed a maid and a youth,
And the song that she sang sounded sweeter than truth;
But the youth sat all silent ; and soon from my sight,
They sped through the gathering shadows of night.
While I watched them departing, the waves seemed to sigh,

And the faintest of halos encircled the moon;
And though love-light the gale, ever feigning to die,

There were signs of a change coming sudden and soon.
But the skies were still beaming, the stars were still bright,
And the lovers still steering their course of delight;
When the sound of the song on mine ear died away,
And the seal of sweet silence concluded the day.
When the sun to its woes first awakened the world,

What a scene ! the tall forests lay prostrate and bare,
While the love-freighted bark into fragments was hurled,

And the youth and the maiden, alas ! they were—where ?
'Gainst the tempest that raged they had struggled in vain,
And the lake rolling wroth as the storm-stricken main ;
Then the voice that was silent had shrieked round the shore,
And the song that seemed sweeter than truth was no more.

Philip Famer Baily.

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With her pure white dress and pure white face,

Waiting for us in the hall.

A diamond star on her bosom lay,

And starry gems were her eyes;
Eyes knowing no shade of thought or care,

Winsomely, sweetly unwise.

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Roses glowed ardent red on her dress,

Glowed ardent red on her lips;
Roses fainted and drooped on her hair,

And died on her finger-tips.
Gold clasped the marble curve of her arms,

It wound round her throat so fair;
It coaxing drooped from her pearly ears,

And rippling gold was ber hair.
I spoke to a friend who gazed with me,

I uttered my rising fears :
Oh! woe, that Grief should that flower-face fade,
And those star-eyes cloud in tears.'

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Your words are men's words,' the lady said ;

“You know not that Pain and Pride
Are stronger than Joy, or Bloom, or Youth,

Or Reason, or aught beside.
“She will look up, when here peace is fled,

As peacefully sweet as now;
Sobs in the heart send smiles to the lips ;

Oh! women alone know how.


Pain shines like joy in the weary eyes,

More brilliant than joy perchance;
And it dyes the cheek, and sharply spurs

The tired feet in the dance.'

Then I cried, ' My darling, must she bear

The wearisome weight of care?
If my arms are round her heart for aye,

Will sorrow still enter there?'

She must bear her heartbreak all alone :

But, oh! for thy darling's sake,
Check the harsh thought—the word which, though light,

Yet may a breaking heart break.

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God's tired children are everywhere,

We dance with them at the ball:
Be kind to the gay, and perchance thy balm

On some wayworn soul shall fall.'




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And tell me the truth, now you hear the confession,

If not with a smile at least not with a frown.
No wonder your triumph—if radiant beauty,

Enhanced by a toilette the créme de la crême,
Could fail to achieve a girl's paramount duty,

To use your own phrase, dear, it would be a shame!

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