Why, now, you no longer are fatal, but ugly and And immortal as every great soul is that strughateful, I swear." gles, endures, and fulfils. XI. XXI. At which she laughed out in her scorn, "These "I love my Walter profoundly, you, Maude, men! O, these men overnice, though you faltered a week, Who are shocked if a color not virtuous is frankly For the sake of... what was it? an eyebrow? or, put on by a vice." less still, a mole on a cheek? "What reason had you, and what right, peal to your soul from my life, -- XXII. "And since, when all's said, you 're too noble to stoop to the frivolous cant About crimes irresistible, virtues that swindle, betray, and supplant, XXIII. "I determined to prove to yourself that, whate'er you might dream or avow To find me too fair as a woman? Why, sir, I am By illusion, you wanted precisely no more of me pure, and a wife. than you have now. XXIV. "There! Look me full in the face! - in the face. Understand, if you can, That the eyes of such women as I am are clean as the palm of a man. XXV. "Drop his hand, you insult him. Avoid us for fear we should cost you a scar, You take us for harlots, I tell you, and not for the women we are. XXVI. "You wronged me: but then I considered... there's Walter! And so at the end, I vowed that he should not be mulcted, by me, in the hand of a friend. • XXVII. "Have I hurt you indeed? We are quits then. Nay, friend of my Walter, be mine! Come, Dora, my darling, my angel, and help me to ask him to dine." ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. ["In the Parish of St. Neots, Cornwall, is a well, arched over with the robes of four kinds of trees, withy, oak, elm, and ash, and dedicated to St. Keyne. The reported virtue of the water is this, that, whether husband or wife first drink thereof, they get the mastery thereby."- FULLER.] A WELL there is in the West country, An oak and an elm tree stand beside, A traveller came to the well of St. Keyne; For from cock-crow he had been travelling, He drank of the water so cool and clear, Under the willow-tree. There came a man from the nighboring town And bade the stranger hail. "Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?” quoth he, "For an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drank this day That ever thou didst in thy life. "Or has your good woman, if one you have, For an if she have, I'll venture my life "I have left a good woman who never was here," The stranger he made reply; "But that my draught should be better for that, I pray you answer me why." "St. Keyne,"quoth the countryman, "many a time Drank of this crystal well, And before the angel summoned her "If the husband of this gifted well "But if the wife should drink of it first, "You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?" He to the countryman said. But the countryman smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head. "I hastened, as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch. But i' faith, she had been wiser than me, ROBERT SOUTHEY. MID pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Home! home! sweet, sweet home! An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain ! This hearth's our own, Our hearts are one, And peace is ours forever! When I was poor, Your father's door Was closed against your constant lover, With care and pain, I tried in vain My fortunes to recover. I said, "To other lands I'll roam, Where Fate may smile on me, love"; I said, "Farewell, my own old home!" And I said, "Farewell to thee, love!" Sing Gille machree, &c. I might have said, My mountain maid, Come live with me, your own true lover; I know a spot, A silent cot, Your friends can ne'er discover, Where gently flows the waveless tide By one small garden only; Flashes the lovelight, increasing the glory, Beaming from bright eyes with warmth of the soul, Telling of trust and content the sweet story, King, king, crown me the king: Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king! Richer than miser with perishing treasure, Served with a service no conquest could bring; Happy with fortune that words cannot measure, Light-hearted I on the hearthstone can sing. King, king, crown me the king: Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king. REV. WILLIAM RANKIN DURYEA. Without disease, the healthful life; The household of continuance; The mean diet, no delicate fare; The faithful wife, without debate; LORD SURREY, KING HENRY. O God! methinks, it were a happy life, To be no better than a homely swain ; To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, So many days my ewes have been with young; SHAKESPEARE. THE MEANS TO ATTAIN HAPPY LIFE. MARTIAL, the things that do attain The happy life be these, I find, — The riches left, not got with pain; The fruitful ground, the quiet mind, The equal friend; no grudge, no strife; No charge of rule, nor governance; THE FIRESIDE. DEAR Chloe, while the busy crowd, Be called our choice, we'll step aside. From the gay world we 'll oft retire Where love our hours employs ; If solid happiness we prize, And they are fools who roam; And that dear hut, our home. Our portion is not large, indeed ; But then how little do we need, For nature's calls are few; In this the art of living lies, To want no more than may suffice, And make that little do. We'll therefore relish with content Nor lose the present hour. To be resigned when ills betide, And pleased with favors given, – Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part, This is that incense of the heart, Whose fragrance smells to heaven. NATHANIEL COTTON. A WINTER'S EVENING HYMN TO MY FIRE. O THOU of home the guardian Lar, Our brave old poets: at thy touch how stirs Thou murmurest, too, divinely stirred, The rhythms so rathe and delicate, And broke, beneath the sombre weight As who would say, ""Tis those, I ween, While the gray snow-storm, held aloof, By him with fire, by her with dreams, Than all the grapes' bewildering juice, A flower of frailest revery, |