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A noble task-time; and will therein strive To follow excellence, and to o'ertake

More good than I have won since yet I live.

So may this doomed time build up in me A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine;

So may my love and longing hallowed be, And thy dear thought an influence divine. FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.

THE GROOMSMAN TO HIS MISTRESS.

I.

EVERY wedding, says the proverb, Makes another, soon or late; Never yet was any marriage

Entered in the book of Fate, But the names were also written Of the patient pair that wait.

II.

Blessings then upon the morning
When my friend, with fondest look,
By the solemn rites' permission,
To himself his mistress took,
And the Destinies recorded
Other two within their book.

III.

While the priest fulfilled his office,
Still the ground the lovers eyed,
And the parents and the kinsmen

Aimed their glances at the bride; But the groomsmen eyed the virgins Who were waiting at her side.

For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains;

For thy dear sake I will walk patiently Through these long hours, nor call their minutes pains.

IV.

Three there were that stood beside her;
One was dark, and one was fair;
But nor fair nor dark the other,

Save her Arab eyes and hair;
Neither dark nor fair I call her,
Yet she was the fairest there.

How delicious is the winning
Of a kiss at Love's beginning,
When two mutual hearts are sighing
For the knot there's no untying!

Yet, remember, 'midst your wooing, Love has bliss, but Love has rueing; Other smiles may make you fickle; Tears for other charms may trickle.

Love he comes, and Love he tarries,
Just as fate or fancy carries;
Longest stays when sorest chidden;
Laughs and flies when pressed and bidden.

Bind the sea to slumber stilly;

Bind its odor to the lily;

Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver;

Then bind Love to last for ever!

THOMAS CAMPBELL

CRABBED AGE AND YOUTH.

CRABBED Age and Youth

Cannot live together: Youth is full of pleasance,

Age is full of care; Youth like summer morn,

Age like winter weather; Youth like Summer brave,

Age like Winter bare. Youth is full of sport, Age's breath is short;

Youth is nimble, Age is lame; Youth is hot and bold,

Age is weak and cold;

Youth is wild, and Age is tame.
Age, I do abhor thee,
Youth, I do adore thee;

O, my love, my love is young!
Age, I do defy thee;

O, sweet shepherd! hie thee,

For methinks thou stay'st too long.

SHAKESPEARE

FLY NOT YET.

FLY not yet 't is just the hour
When pleasure, like the midnight flower,
That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,

And maids who love the moon!

'T was but to bless these hours of shade That beauty and the moon were made; 'Tis then their soft attractions glowing Set the tides and goblets flowing!

O! stay,-O! stay,

Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to-night, that O! 'tis pain
To break its links so soon

NATURA NATURANS.

BESIDE me,—in the car,—she sat;

She spake not, no, nor looked to me. From her to me, from me to her,

What passed so subtly, stealthily?
As rose to rose, that by it blows,

Its interchanged aroma flings;
Or wake to sound of one sweet note
The virtues of disparted strings.

Beside me, nought but this!--but this,

That influent; as within me dwelt Her life; mine too within her breast,

Her brain, her every limb, she felt. We sat; while o'er and in us, more

And more, a power unknown prevailed. Inhaling and inhaled,—and still

'T was one, inhaling or inhaled.

Beside me, nought but this; and passed-
I passed; and know not to this day
If gold or jet her girlish hair-

If black, or brown, or lucid-gray
Her eye's young glance. The fickle chance
That joined us yet may join again;
But I no face again could greet

As hers, whose life was in me then.

As unsuspecting mere a maid—

As fresh in maidhood's bloomiest bloom

In casual second-class did e'er

By casual youth her seat assume;
Or vestal, say, of saintliest clay,
For once by balmiest airs betrayed
Unto emotions too, too sweet
To be unlingeringly gainsayed.

Unowning then, confusing soon

With dreamier dreams that o'er the glass Of shyly ripening woman-sense

Reflected, scarce reflected, passA wife may be, a mother, she

In Hymen's shrine recalls not now She first in hour, ah, not profane!

With me to Hymen learnt to bow.

Ah no!-yet owned we, fused in one,

The Power which, e'en in stones and earths

By blind elections felt, in forms

Organic breeds to myriad births;