That never, never, never more,
As in those old still nights of yore
(Ere we were grown so sadly wise),
Can you and I shut out the skies,
Shut out the world, and wintry weather,
And, eyes exchanging warmth with eyes,
Play chess, as then we play'd, together!

ROBERT BULWER LYTTON

TO BEATRICE,

THE SQUIRE'S DAUGHTER.

THE girl I love is just fourteen,
With face so sweet and bright.

I think about her all the day,

I dream of her at night.

She never knows-how can she know?—
That I'm her lover true;

For I sit with the Bluecoat Boys,
And she's in the Squire's pew.
Yet still I strive her glance to meet~
Her eyes are large and gray-
There's only half a church between,
But what a world away, my dear,
Oh what a world away!

I watch her when the psalms begin,
Singing so earnestly;

And I am sure I heard her voice

Ring through the chant to me. I watch her when the vicar reads,

And when we kneel to pray;

There's only half a church between, But what a world away, my dear, Oh what a world away!

By the great pillar as she sits,

She looks so slight and fair;

The light of the stained window falls Upon her yellow hair,

A bar of glowing amethyst;

And to myself I say:

There's only half a church between,
But what a world away, my dear,
Oh what a world away!

If I were rich and I were free,
How great would be my joy!
I'd be a grand Etonian,

And not a Bluecoat Boy.

Yet there she sits, her smile I know,
Her smile I met to-day;

There's only half a church between,
But what a world away, my dear,
Ah what a world away!

MAY KENDALL

WE MET, 'TWAS IN A CROWD.

WE met-'twas in a crowd

And I thought he would shun me;
He came I could not breathe,

For his eye was upon me;
He spoke, his words were cold,
And his smile was unaltered;

I knew how much he felt,

For his deep-toned voice falter'd;

I wore my bridal robe,

And I rival'd its whiteness!

Bright gems were in my hair,

How I hated their brightness!

She leant upon his arm

Once 'twas mine, and mine only

I wept, for I deserved

To feel wretched and lonely;

And she will be his bride!

At the altar he'll give her

The love that was too pure
For a heartless deceiver;
The world may think me gay,
For my feelings I smother-
Oh! thou hast been the cause

Of this anguish, my mother!

T. HAYNES BAILEY.

THE AGE OF WISDOM.

Ho, pretty page with the dimpled chin
That never has known the barber's shear,

All your wish is woman to win,
This is the way that boys begin,-
Wait till you come to Forty Year.