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And when at last thy love shall die,

Wilt thou receive his parting breath?
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,
And cheer with smiles the bed

of death ? And wilt thou o'er his much-loved clay

Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear? Nor then regret those scenes so gay, Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?

Dr. Thomas Percy.

THE SEMPSTRESS TO HER MIGNONETTE.

LOVE that box of mignonette ;

Though worthless in your eyes,
Above your choicest hot-house flowers,

My mignonette I prize ;
Thank Heaven, not yet I've learned on that

A money worth to set ;
'Tis priceless as the thoughts it brings,

My box of mignonette
I know my own sweet mignonette

Is neither strange nor rare,
Your garden flaunters burn with hues

That it may never wear;
Yet on your garden's rarest blooms

No eyes were ever set
With more delight than mine on yours,

My box of mignonette.
Why do I prize my mignonette

That lights my window there ?
It adds a pleasure to delight,

It steals a weight from care;
What happy daylight dreams it brings

Can I not half forget
My long, long hours of weary work,

With you, my mignonette ?

It tells of May, my mignonette,

And as I see it bloom,
I think the green, bright, pleasant spring

Comes freshly through my room ;
Our narrow court is dark and close,

Yet when my eyes you met,
Wide fields lay stretching from my sight,

My box of mignonette.
What talks it of, my mignonette ?

To me it babbles still
Of woodland bank of primroses,

Of heath and breezy hill ;
Through country lanes and daisied fields,

Through paths with morning wet,
Again I trip, as when a girl,

With you, my mignonette. For this I love my mignonette,

My window garden small, That country thoughts and scents and sounds

Around me loves to call ;
For this, though low in rich men's thoughts

Your worth and love be set-
I bless you, pleasure of the poor,
My own sweet mignonette.

W. C. Bennett.

T

THE MINSTREL BOY.
HE minstrel boy to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death you'll find him ;
His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him. “Land of song!” said the warrior bard,

Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,

One faithful harp shall praise thee!'

The minstrel fell ! but the foeman's chain

Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,

For he tore its chords asunder,
And said, “No chains shall sully thee,

Thou soul of song and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
They shall never sound in slavery!”

Moore.

TO THE DANDELION.

D

EAR common flower, that grow'st beside the

way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold,

First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold.

High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they
An Eldorado on the grass have found,

Which not the rich earth's ample round
May match in wealth; thou art more dear to me
Than all the prouder summer blooms may be.

Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow Through the primeval hush of Indian seas,

Nor wrinkled the lean brow
Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease;

'Tis the spring's largess, which she scatters now To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand,

Though most hearts never understand To take it at God's value, but pass by The offered wealth with unrewarded eye.

Thou art my tropics and mine Italy;
To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime;

The eyes thou givest me
Are in thy heart, and heed not space or time;

Not in mid-June the golden-cuirassed bee

Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment

In the white lily's breezy tent,
His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first
From the dark green thy yellow circles burst.

Then think I of deep shadows on the grass,
Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze,

Where, as the breezes pass,
The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways;

Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass,
Or whiten in the wind- of waters blue,

That from the distance sparkle through Some woodland gap-and of a sky above, Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with

thee;
The sight of thee calls back the robin's song,

Who, from the dark old tree
Beside the door, sang dearly all day long.

And I, secure in childish piety,
Listened as if I heard an angel sing

With news from Heaven, which he could bring
Fresh every day to my untainted ears,
When birds and flowers and I were happy peers.

How like a prodigal doth Nature seem,
When thou, for all thy gold, so common art !

Thou teachest me to deem More sacredly of every human heart,

Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam
Of Heaven, and could some wondrous secret show,

Did we but pay the love we owe,
And with a child's undoubting wisdom look
On all these living pages of God's book.

Lowell.

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