Is there within thy heart a need

That mine can not fulfil ?

One chord that any other hand

Could better wake or still?

Speak now - lest at some future day my whole life wither and decay.

Lives there within thy nature hid

The demon-spirit Change, Shedding a passing glory still

On all things new and strange ?

It may not be thy fault alone — but shield my heart against thy own.

Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day

And answer to my claim,

That Fate, and that to-day's mistake

Not thou had been to blame?

Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou wilt surely

Whatever on my heart may fall, remember, I would risk

it all!

ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.

A

Ask me no more.

SK me no more: the moon may draw the sea;

The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape,

With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;

But, O too fond, when have I answered thee?

Ask me no more.

WIDOW BEDOTT TO ELDER SNIFFLES.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give?
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:

Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die !
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are sealed:
I strove against the stream, and all in vain :
Let the great river take me to the main :
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;
Ask me no more.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

53

Widow Bedott to Elder Sniffles.

REVEREND sir, I do declare

It drives me most to frenzy,

To think of you a lying there
Down sick with influenzy.

A body'd thought it was enough
To mourn your wive's departer,
Without sich trouble as this ere

To come a follerin' arter.

But sickness and affliction

Are sent by a wise creation,
And always ought to be underwent
By patience and resignation.

O, I could to your bedside fly,
And wipe your weeping eyes,
And do my best to cure you up,
If 't would n't create surprise.

It's a world of trouble we tarry in,
But, Elder, don't despair;

That you may soon be movin' again
Is constantly my prayer.

Both sick and well, you may depend
You'll never be forgot

By your faithful and affectionate friend,
PRISCILLA POOL BEDOTT.

FRANCES MIRIAM WHITCHER.

My Aunt.

MY aunt! my dear unmarried aunt!

Long years have o'er her flown;

Yet still she strains the aching clasp

That binds her virgin zone;

My aunt! my poor deluded aunt!
Her hair is almost gray;
Why will she train that winter curl
In such a spring-like way?
How can she lay her glasses down,
And say she reads as well,
When, through a double convex lens,

She just makes out to spell?

Her father-grandpapa, forgive

This erring lip its smiles

Vowed she should make the finest girl

Within a hundred miles;

MY AUNT.

He sent her to a stylish school;

'T was in her thirteenth June; And with her, as the rules required, "Two towels and a spoon."

They braced my aunt against a board,
To make her straight and tall;

They laced her up, they starved her down,
To make her light and small;

They pinched her feet, they singed her hair,
They screwed it up with pins ; —

Oh, never mortal suffered more
In penance for her sins.

So, when my precious aunt was done,
My grandsire brought her back;
(By daylight, lest some rabid youth
Might follow on the track ;)
"Ah!" said my grandsire, as he shook
Some powder in his pan,
"What could this lovely creature do
Against a desperate man!"

Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche,
Nor bandit cavalcade,

Tore from the trembling father's arms
His all-accomplished maid.

For her how happy had it been!
And Heaven had spared to me
To see one sad, ungathered rose

On my ancestral tree.

OLIVER Wendell Holmes.

55

The Bachelor's Dream.

MY

Y pipe is lit, my grog is mixed, My curtains drawn, and all is snug; Old Puss is in her elbow-chair,

And Tray is sitting on the rug.

Last night I had a curious dream,

Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg — What d' ye think of that, my cat? What d' ye think of that, my dog?

She looked so fair, she sang so well,

I could but woo and she was won; Myself in blue, the bride in white,

The ring was placed, the deed was done! Away we went in chaise-and-four,

As fast as grinning boys could flog -
What d' ye think of that, my cat?
What d' ye think of that, my dog?

What loving tête-à-têtes to come!
What tête-à-têtes must still defer!
When Susan came to live with me,

Her mother came to live with her!
With sister Belle she could n't part,
But all my ties had leave to jog
What d' ye think of that, my cat?
What d' ye think of that, my dog?

The mother brought a pretty Poll —
A monkey, too, what work he made!
The sister introduced a beau

My Susan brought a favorite maid. She had a tabby of her own, –

A snappish mongrel christened Gog,

What d' ye think of that, my cat?
What d' ye think of that, my dog?