The coinage of her heart are they,

And from her lips each flows As one may see the burdened bee Forth issue from the rose.

Affectious are as thoughts to her,
The measures of her hours;
Her feelings have the fragrancy,
The freshness of young flowers;
And lovely passions, changing oft,
So fill her, she appears

The image of themselves by turns,—
The idol of past years.

Of her bright face one glance will trace
A picture on the brain,

And of her voice in echoing hearts
A sound must long remain;
But memory such as mine of her

So very much endears,

When death is nigh, my latest sigh
Will not be life's, but hers.

I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone;

A woman, of her gentle sex

The seeming paragon.

Her health! and would on earth there stood

Some more of such a frame,

That life might be all poetry,
And weariness a name.

SONG: WE BREAK THE GLASS.

We break the glass, whose sacred wine To some belovéd health we drain, Lest future pledges, less divine,

Should e'er the hallowed toy profane; And thus I broke a heart that poured Its tide of feeling out for thee, In draughts, by after-times deplored, Yet dear to memory.

But still the old impassioned ways
And habits of my mind remain,
And still unhappy light displays

Thine image chambered in my brain. And still it looks as when the hours

Went by like flights of singing birds, On that soft chain of spoken flowers, And airy gems, thy words.

Robert Macnish.

573

Macnish (1802-1837) was a native of Glasgow, Scotland. He studied medicine, and when eighteen received the degree of Master of Surgery. He manifested marked talents for literary pursuits; contributing some graceful poems to Blackwood's Magazine, also the striking story of "The Metempsychosis" (1825). He was the author of "The Anatomy of Drunkenness," "The Philosophy of Sleep," and other approved works. After eighteen months of country practice in Caithness, where his health failed, he went abroad and spent a year in Paris; attended the lectures of Broussais and Dupuytren, met Cuvier, and became acquainted with Galt, the phrenologist. On his return to Scotland he settled in Glasgow, but died young, beloved and lamented. His literary writings were collected, and published in a volume by his friend, D. M. Moir.

MY LITTLE SISTER.

Thy memory as a spell

Of love comes o'er my mind; As dew upon the purple bell, As perfume on the wind; As music on the sea,

As sunshine on the river, So hath it always been to me, So shall it be forever.

I hear thy voice in dreams

Upon me softly call,

Like echo of the mountain streams

In sportive water-fall.

I see thy form as when

Thou wert a living thing,

And blossomed in the eyes of men Like any flower of spring.

Thy soul to heaven hath fled, From earthly thraldom free; Yet 'tis not as the dead

That thou appear'st to me. In slumber I behold

Thy form, as when on earth;

Thy locks of waving gold,
Thy sapphire eye of mirth.

I hear, in solitude,

The prattle, kind and free, Thou utteredst in joyful mood While seated on my knee. So strong each vision seems, My spirit that doth fill,

I think not they are dreams, But that thou livest still.

Winthrop Mackworth Praed.

The son of a sergeant-at-law, Praed (1802-1839), a native of London, was educated at Eton and at Trinity College, Cambridge. He studied for the Bar, but entered political life, and became a member of the House of Commons. While at Eton, in conjunction with Moultrie, William Sidney Walker, Chauncey Hare Townshend, and others, he edited that remarkably clever college magazine, The Etonian, of which Praed was the life. His poems are what have been styled vers de société; but they are sprightly, original, and witty, and have had hosts of imitators. His charades, too, are the best of their kind. On the maternal side Praed was related to the wellknown Winthrop family of Boston, U. S. A.

MY LITTLE COUSINS.

"E voi ridete ?-Certe Ridiamo."-CoSI FAN TUTTE.

Laugh on, fair cousins, for to you

All life is joyous yet;

Your hearts have all things to pursue,

And nothing to regret;

And every flower to you is fair,

And every month is May: You've not been introduced to CareLaugh on, laugh on, to-day!

Old Time will fling his clouds ere long Upon those sunny eyes;

The voice, whose every word is song,
Will set itself to sighs;

Your quiet slumbers, hopes and fears
Will chase their rest away:
To-morrow you'll be shedding tears-
Laugh on, laugh on, to-day!

Oh yes; if any truth is found

In the dull schoolman's theme, If friendship is an empty sound,

And love an idle dream,

If mirth, youth's playmate, feels fatigue Too soon on life's long way,

At least he'll run with you a league;— Laugh on, laugh on, to-day!

Perhaps your eyes may grow more bright
As childhood's hues depart;
You may be lovelier to the sight,
And dearer to the heart;
You may be sinless still, and see

This earth still green and gay:

But what you are you will not be-
Laugh on, laugh on, to-day!

O'er me have many winters crept,

With less of grief than joy!

But I have learned, and toiled, and wept; I am no more a boy!

I've never had the gout, 'tis true,

My hair is hardly gray;

But now I cannot laugh like you-
Laugh on, laugh on, to-day!

I used to have as glad a face,
As shadowless a brow:

I once could run as blithe a race
As you are running now;
But never mind how I behave!
Don't interrupt your play;
And though I look so very grave,
Laugh on, laugh on, to-day!

WHERE IS MISS MYRTLE?

AIR: "SWEET KITTY CLOVER."

Where is Miss Myrtle? can any one tell?
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
She flirts with another, I know very well;
And I am left all alone!

She flies to the window when Arundel rings,-
She's all over smiles when Lord Archibald sings,-
It's plain that her Cupid has two pair of wings:
Where is she gone, where is she gone?

Her love and my love are different things;
And I am left all alone!

I brought her, one morning, a rose for her brow; Where is she gone, where is she gone?

She told me such horrors were never worn now: And I-am left all alone!

But I saw her at night with a rose in her hair, And I guess who it came from-of course I don't

care.

We all know that girls are as false as they're fair;
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
I'm sure the lieutenant's a horrible bear:
And I am left all alone!

Whenever we go on the Downs for a ride,—
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
She looks for another to trot by her side:
And I am left all alone!

And whenever I take her down-stairs from a ball,
She nods to some puppy to put on her shawl:
I'm a peaceable man, and I don't like a brawl;—
Where is she gone, where is she gone?

I've sent the learnéd Doctor Trepan
To feel Sir Hubert's broken knee-pan :
"Twill rout the Doctor's seven senses
To find Sir Hubert charging fences!
I've sent a sallow parchment-scraper
To put Miss Trim's last will on paper;
He'll see her, silent as a mummy,

At whist, with her two maids and dummy.
Man of brief, and man of pill,
They will take it very ill;
If they care for what I say,
They are April-fools to-day!

And to the world I publish gayly
That all things are improving daily;
That suns grow warmer, streamlets clearer,
And faith more warm, and love sincerer ;
That children grow extremely clever,
That sin is seldom known, or never;
That gas, and steam, and education,
Are killing sorrow and starvation!

Pleasant visions!-but alas,

How those pleasant visions pass!
If you care for what I say,
You're an April-fool to-day!

Last, to myself, when night comes round me,
And the soft chain of thought has bound me,
I whisper, "Sir, your eyes are killing;
You owe no mortal man a shilling;
You never cringe for Star or Garter;
You're much too wise to be a martyr;
And, since you must be food for vermin,
You don't feel much desire for ermine!"
Wisdom is a mine, no doubt,
If one can but find it out;
But, whate'er I think or say,
I'm an April-fool to-day!

GOOD-NIGHT.

Good-night to thee, lady!-though many
Have joined in the dance to-night,
Thy form was the fairest of any,

Where all was seducing and bright;

Thy smile was the softest and dearest,

Thy form the most sylph-like of all, And thy voice the most gladsome and clearest That e'er held a partner in thrall.

Good-night to thee, lady!-'tis over

The waltz--the quadrille, and the song

The whispered farewell of the lover,

The heartless adieu of the throng; The heart that was throbbing with pleasure, The eyelid that longed for reposeThe beaux that were dreaming of treasure, The girls that were dreaming of beaux.

'Tis over-the lights are all dying,
The coaches all driving away;
And many a fair one is sighing,
And many a false one is gay;

And beauty counts over her numbers

Of conquests, as homeward she drivesAnd some are gone home to their slumbers, And some are gone home to their wives.

And I, while my cab in the shower

Is waiting, the last at the door, Am looking all round for the flower That fell from your wreath on the floor. I'll keep it if but to remind me,

Though withered and faded its hueWherever next season may find me

Of England-of Almack's-and you!

There are tones that will haunt us, though lonely
Our path be o'er mountain or sea;

There are looks that will part from us only
When memory ceases to be;

There are hopes which our burden can lighten,
Though toilsome and steep be the way;
And dreams that, like moonlight, can brighten,
With a light that is clearer than day.

There are names that we cherish, though nameless
For aye on the lip they may be;

There are hearts that, though fettered, are tameless,
And thoughts unexpressed, but still free!
And some are too grave for a rover,

And some for a husband too light.
-The ball and my dream are all over-
Good-night to thee, lady! good-night!

CHARADE.

CAMP-BELL.

Come from my First, ay, come;

The battle dawn is nigh;

And the screaming trump and the thundering drum Are calling thee to die;

Fight, as thy father fought;

Fall, as thy father fell;