Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. Even while I muse, I see thee sit We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon Or lingered mid the falling dew, Though I see smiling at thy feet They come, my love, they come from thee. O, when more thought we gave, of old, IF THOU WERT BY MY SIDE, MY LOVE If thou, my love, wert by my side, How gayly would our pinnace glide I miss thee at the dawning gray, I miss thee when by Gunga's stream I spread my books, my pencil try, But when at morn and eve the star I feel, though thou art distant far, Then on then on! where duty leads, O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads, O'er bleak Almorah's hill. That course nor Delhi's kingly gates, Nor mild Malwah detain; For sweet the bliss us both awaits By yonder western main. Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, Across the dark blue sea; But ne'er were hearts so light and gay As then shall meet in thee ! REGINALD HEBER. JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. JOHN ANDERSON, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither. Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go : And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. Mild is Maire bhan astór, Mine is Maire bhan astór, Your aged eyes will see in mine all they've still shown to you, And mine in yours all they have seen since this old ring was new. And O, when death shall come at last to bid me to my rest, May I die looking in those eyes, and resting on O, may my parting gaze be blessed with the dear WILLIAM COX BENNEtt. O FAIREST of creation, last and best MARIE BHAN ASTOR. "FAIR MARY, my treasure." IN a valley far away With my Maire bhan astór, With the light her heart would pour, II. O, her sire is very proud, And her mother cold as stone; But her brother bravely vowed She should be my bride alone; For he knew I loved her well, And he knew she loved me too, True is Maire bhan astór, III. There are lands where manly toil Where the broad Missouri flows; BRUTUS. Portia, what mean you? Wherefore It is not for your health thus to commit Stole from my bed: And yesternight, at supper, Musing, and sighing, with your arins across; | I urged you further; then you scratched your head, And too impatiently stamped with your foot : man. It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep, POR. Brutus is wise, and were he not in health, He would embrace the means to come by it. Bau. Why, so I do :-good Portia, go to bed. POR. Is Brutus sick, —and is it physical To walk unbraced, and suck up the humors Of the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick, And will he steal out of his wholesome bed, To dare the vile contagion of the night, And tempt the rheumy and unpurgéd air To add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus ; You have some sick offence within your mind, Which, by the right and virtue of my place, I ought to know of: And upon my knees I charm you, by my once commended beauty, By all your vows of love, and that great vow Which did incorporate and make us one, That you unfold to me, yourself, your half, Why you are heavy; and what men to-night Have had resort to you, for here have been Some six or seven, who did hide their faces Even from darkness. BRU. - Kneel not, gentle Portia. POR. I should not need, if you were gentle Brutus. Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus, To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed, suburbs Of your good pleasure? If it be no more, BRU. You are my true and honorable wife; POR. If this were true, then should I know this secret. I grant I am a woman; but, withal, Why, now, you no longer are fatal, but ugly and | And immortal as every great soul is that strughateful, I swear." XI. gles, endures, and fulfils. XXI. "These "I love my Walter profoundly, you, Maude, though you faltered a week, At which she laughed out in her scorn, men! O, these men overnice, Who are shocked if a color not virtuous is frankly put on by a vice." For the sake of... what was it? an eyebrow? or, less still, a mole on a cheek? ["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, |