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PARTED FRIENDS.

FRIEND after friend departs :

Who hath not lost a friend? There is no union here of hearts

That finds not here an end; Were this frail world our only rest, Living or dying, none were blest.

Beyond the flight of time,

Beyond this vale of death,
There surely is some blessed clime
Where life is not a breath,
Nor life's affections transient fire,
Whose sparks fly upward to expire.

There is a world above,

Where parting is unknown; A whole eternity of love,

Formed for the good alone; And faith beholds the dying here Translated to that happier sphere.

Thus star by star declines,

Till all are passed away,

As morning high and higher shines,
To pure and perfect day;

Ner sink those stars in empty night ;
They hide themselves in heaven's own light.

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and say,

"T is true," I'd not believe them more than thee, All-noble Marcius. Let me twine

Mine arms about that body, where-against.
My grained ash an hundred times hath broke,
And scared the moon with splinters! Here I clip
The anvil of my sword; and do contest
As hotly and as nobly with thy love,
As ever in ambitious strength I did
Contend against thy valor. Know thou first,
I loved the maid I married; never man
Sighed truer breath; but that I see thee here,
Thou noble thing! more dances my rapt heart
Than when I first my wedded mistress saw
Bestride my threshold. Why, thou Mars! I tell
thee,

We have a power on foot; and I had purpose
Once more to hew thy target from thy brawn,

Or lose mine arm for 't. Thou hast beat me out | Stood forth in Bagdad daily, in the square
Twelve several times, and I have nightly since
Dreamt of encounters 'twixt thyself and me,
We have been down together in my sleep,
Unbuckling helms, fisting each other's throat,
And waked half dead with nothing. Worthy
Marcius,

Where once had stood a happy house, and there
Harangued the tremblers at the seymitar
On all they owed to the divine Jaffar.

Had we no other quarrel else to Rome, but that
Thou art thence banished, we would muster all
From twelve to seventy; and, pouring war
Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome,

Like a bold flood o'erbear. O, come! go in,
And take our friendly senators by the hands;
Who now are here, taking their leaves of me,
Who am prepared against your territories,
Though not for Rome itself.

A thousand welcomes !
And more a friend than e'er an enemy;
Yet, Marcius, that was much.

SHAKESPEARE.

WHEN TO THE SESSIONS OF SWEET
SILENT THOUGHT.

SONNET XXX.

WHEN to the sessions of sweet silent thought

I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,

"Bring me this man," the caliph cried; the man Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began To bind his arms. "Welcome, brave cords," cried he;

"From bonds far worse Jaffar delivered me;
From wants, from shames, from loveless house-
hold fears;

Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears;
Restored me, loved me, put me on a par
With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar
Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this
The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss,
Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate
Might smile upon another half as great.
He said, "Let worth grow frenzied if it will;
The caliph's judgment shall be master still.
Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this gem,
The richest in the Tartar's diadem,

And hold the giver as thou deemest fit!"
"Gifts!" cried the friend; he took, and hold-

ing it

High toward the heavens, as though to meet his star,

LEIGH HUNT.

And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: Exclaimed, "This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar!"
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long-since-cancelled woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanished sight.
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay, as if not paid before;

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored, and sorrows end.

JAFFAR.

SHAKESPEARE.

JAFFAR, the Barmecide, the good vizier,
The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer,
Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust;
And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust
Of what the good, and e'en the bad, might say,
Ordained that no man living from that day
Should dare to speak his name on pain of death.
All Araby and Persia held their breath;

All but the brave Mondeer: he, proud to show
How far for love a grateful soul could go,
And facing death for very scorn and grief
For his great heart wanted a great relief),

THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS.

"We take each other by the hand, and we exchange a few words and looks of kindness, and we rejoice together for a few short moments; and then days, months, years intervene, and we see and know nothing of each other."-WASHINGTON IRVING.

Two barks met on the deep mid-sea,
When calms had stilled the tide;
A few bright days of summer glee
There found them side by side.

And voices of the fair and brave
Rose mingling thence in mirth ;
And sweetly floated o'er the wave
The melodies of earth.

Moonlight on that lone Indian main
Cloudless and lovely slept;
While dancing step and festive strain
Each deck in triumph swept.

And hands were linked, and answering eyes
With kindly meaning shone;
O, brief and passing sympathies,
Like leaves together blown!

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Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
'T was not the soft magic of streamlet or hill,
O, no! it was something more exquisite still.

'T was that friends, the beloved of my bosom,

were near,

Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,

And who felt how the best charms of nature im

prove,

When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet Vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best;

Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,

And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in

THE QUARREL OF FRIENDS.

FROM "CHRISTABEL."

ALAS! they had been friends in youth: But whispering tongues can poison truth; And constancy lives in realms above;

And life is thorny; and youth is vain; And to be wroth with one we love

-

Doth work like madness in the brain.
And thus it chanced, as I divine,
With Roland and Sir Leoline!
Each spoke words of high disdain
And insult to his heart's best brother;
They parted, - ne'er to meet again!
But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining.
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder;
A dreary sea now flows between,
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder
Shall wholly do away, I ween,

The marks of that which once hath been.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

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THE MAHOGANY-TREE.

CHRISTMAS is here;
Winds whistle shrill,
Icy and chill,
Little care we ;
Little we fear
Weather without,
Sheltered about
The mahogany-tree.

Once on the boughs
Birds of rare plume
Sang, in its bloom;
Night-birds are we;
Here we carouse,
Singing, like them,
Perched round the stem
Of the jolly old tree.

Here let us sport,
Boys, as we sit,
Laughter and wit
Flashing so free.

Life is but short, When we are gone, Let them sing on, Round the old tree.

Evenings we knew,
Happy as this;
Faces we miss,
Pleasant to see.

Kind hearts and true,
Gentle and just,
Peace to your dust!
We sing round the tree.

Care, like a dun,
Lurks at the gate:
Let the dog wait;
Happy we'll be !
Drink, every one;
Pile up the coals;
Fill the red bowls,
Round the old tree!

Drain we the cup.
Friend, art afraid?
Spirits are laid
In the Red Sea.

Mantle it up;
Empty it yet;
Let us forget,
Round the old tree!

Sorrows, begone!
Life and its ills,
Duns and their bills,
Bid we to flee.
Come with the dawn,
Blue-devil sprite;
Leave us to-night,
Round the old tree!

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

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GIVE ME THE OLD.

OLD WINE TO DRINK, OLD WOOD TO BURN, OLD BOOKS TO READ, AND OLD FRIENDS TO CONVERSE WITH.

OLD wine to drink!

Ay, give the slippery juice

That drippeth from the grape thrown loose

Within the tun;

Plucked from beneath the cliff

Of sunny-sided Teneriffe,

And ripened 'neath the blink

Of India's sun!

Peat whiskey hot,

Tempered with well-boiled water! These make the long night shorter,

Forgetting not

Good stout old English porter.

AULD LANG SYNE.

SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min'? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang syne?

CHORUS.

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne.

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