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THE FROZEN BROOK. This exquisite description is taken from a poem by JAMES R. Lowell, an American poet, entitled the The Vision of Sir Launfal.

Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak,

From the snow five thousand summers old ;
On open wold and hill-top bleak

It had gather'd all the cold,
And whirl'd it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek;
It carried a shiver everywhere
From the unleaf'd boughs and pastures bare ;
The little brook heard it and built a roof
'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof;
All night by the white stars' frosty gleams
He groin'd his arches and match'd his beams;
Slender and clear were his crystal spars
As the lashes of light that trim the stars ;
He sculptured every summer delight
In his halls and chambers out of sight;
Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt

Down through a frost-leaved, forest-crypt,
Long, sparkling isles of steel-ste mm'd trees

Bending to counterfeit a breeze ;
Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew
But silvery mosses that downward grew;
Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief
With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf;
Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear
For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here
He had caught the nodding bulrush tops
And hung them thickly with diamond drops,
Which crystall’d the beams of moon and sun,
And made a star of every one :
No mortal builder's most rare device
Could match this winter-palace of ice :
'Twas as if every image that mirror'd lay
In his depths serene through the summer day,
Each flitting shadow of earth and sky,

Lest the happy model should be lost,
Had been mimicked in fairy masonry
By the elfin builders of the frost.


All faces melt in smiles and tears,

Stirr'd up by many a passion strange,
(Likings, loathings, wishes, fears,)

Till death :- then ends all change.
Then king and peasant, bride and nun,
Wear but one!

Spring, all beauty, aye laughs loud;

Summers smile, and autumns rave;
But winter puts on his white shroud,

And lies down in his grave;
And when the next soft season nears,
He disappears!

Merry spring for childish face ;

Summer for young manhood bold;
Autumn for a graver race;

Winter for the old !
After that,—what seasons run ?
Alas! not one!

Then all the changing passions fade;

Then all the seasons strange have pass'd ;
And overspreads one boundless shade,

Which must for ever last :
Then life's uncounted sands are run,
And all is done!


By ROWLAND BROWN. Let her be his in the hours of pride, of pomp and revelry; Let her be his in courtly crowds of young frivolity; Amidst the blaze of the banquet lights, in the halls of dance

and song; I love her not for the admiring gaze of a gay and thought

less throng. VOL. y.

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Let her be his when exultant scorn shall beam from her

eyes o' blue; Let her be his when her warm cheek glows with a strange

unnatural hue; Let her be his when thoughtless words from thoughtless

lips may fall; Let her be his when folly's lamps are alight in Vanity Hall.

Let her be his; aye let him caress with pride her jewell'd

hand; Let her be his when she proudly walks with what the

world calls grand; Let her be his when her heart grows faint, and aweary of

hollow mirth, When her spirit thirsts for a loftier scene and nobler joys of


Let her be his whilst the senseless crowd around her bow

the knee ; Let her be his (for I feel such scenes can awake no joy in

me), Let her be his for the transient hours such joys can charm

the heart; But let her be mine when the dreams of night for the

smiles of morn depart.

Let her be mine when mocking hands no fading garlands

wreathe; Let her be mine when the scatter'd throngs no flattering

incense breathe; Let her be mine when the thoughts of night are pass'd for

the deeds of day; Let her be mine when the lips take heed of the tale the

heart would say. Let her be mine in that holy place, to set love's signet

ring; Let her be mine in the blissful hour when the joy-bells

merrily ring; Let her be mine when her spirit feels it cannot happier be Than to rest in the home she has made in my heart, and to

live and to die with me.

Let her be mine in the silent hour when angels hover by; Let her be mine when none are near to hear the bosom's

sigh; Let her be mine when the light of heaven may rest on her

placid brow; Let her be mine when God alone can hear the whisper'd

VOW : Let her be mine through the battle of life with smiles love

deeds to crown ; Let her be mine in the trying time when false friends on

me frown ; Let her be mine in the hour of death to hear my last fond

prayer; And let her be mine in the worlds of light to love and to

bless me there.

THE PARTING WORD. One of 0. W. Holmes's semi-serious semi-humourous poems, a style peculiarly his own.

I must leave thee, lady sweet!
Months shall waste before we meet;
Winds are fair, and sails are spread,
Anchors leave their ocean bed;
Ere this shining day grow dark,
Skies shall gird my shoreless bark ;
Through thy tears, O lady mine,
Read thy lover's parting line.

When the first sad sun shall set,
Thou shalt tear thy locks of jet;
When the morning star shall rise,
Thou shalt wake with weeping eyes ;
When the second sun goes down,
Thou more tranquil shalt be grown,
Taught too well that wild despair
Dims thine eyes, and spoils thy hair.

All the first unquiet week
Thou shalt wear a smileless cheek;

In the first month's second half
Thou shalt once attempt to laugb;
Then in Pickwick thou shalt dip,
Slightly puckering round the lip,
Till at last, in sorrow's spite,
Samuel makes thee laugh outright.

While the first seven mornings last,
Round thy chamber bolted fast,
Many a youth shall fume and pout,
“ Hang the girl, she's always out !"
While the second week goes round,
Vainly shall they ring and pound;
When the third week shall begin,
“Martha, let the creature in."

Now once more the flattering throng
Round thee flock with smile and song,
But thy lips unwean'd as yet,
Lisp, “0, how can I forget!”
Men and devils both contrive
Traps for catching girls alive;
Eve was duped, and Helen kiss'd, -
How, O how can you resist ?

First be careful of your fan,
Trust it not to youth or man;
Love has fill'd a pirate's sail
Often with its perfumed gale.
Mind your kerchief most of all,
Fingers touch when kerchiefs fall ;
Shorter ell than mercers clip,
Is the space from hand to lip.

Trust not such as talk in tropes,
Full of pistols, daggers, ropes;
All the hemp that Russia bears
Scarce would answer lovers' prayers;
Never thread was spun so fine,
Never spider stretch'd the line,
Would not hold the lovers true
That would really swing for you.

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