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The leafy summer-time is young;

The yearliim lambs are strong;
The sunlight glanceth merrily;

The trees are full of song;
The plain and polish'd river flows

Contentedly along.

Beyond the river, bounding all,

A host of green hills stand,
The manor-rise their central point,

As cheerful as a band
Of happy children round their chief

Extended, hand in hand.

Their shadows from the setting sun

Reach all across the plain;
The guard-hound, in the silent night,

Stops wrangling with his chain,
To hear, at every burst of barks,

The hills bark back again.

THIS IS MY ELDEST DAUGHTER, SIR.
A lively lyric, by F. H. Bayly.

Tnis is my eldest daughter, Sir,

Her mother's only care;
You praise her face—Oh! Sir, she is

As good as she is fair.
My angel Grace is clever, too,

Accomplishments I've taught her;
I'll introduce you to her; Sir,

This is my eldest daughter.

I've sought the aid of ornament,

Bejewelling her curls,
I've tried her beauty unadorn'd;

Simplicity and pearls;
I've set her off, to get her off,

Till fallen off I've thought her;
Yet I've softly breathed to all the beaux,

'This is my eldest daughter.'

I

I've tried all styles of hair-dressing,

Madonnas, frizzes, crops;
Her waist I've laced, her back I've braced

Till circulation stops.
I've padded her until I have

Into a Venus brought her;
But puffing her has no effect;

This is my eldest daughter.

Her gowns all a la Ackerman,

Her corsets a la Bell;
Yet, when the season ends, each beau

Still leaves his T. T. L.
I patronize each dejeune,

Each party on the water:
Yet still she hangs upon my arm!

This is my eldest daughter.

She did refuse a gentleman—

(I own it was absurd),
She thought she ought to answer No!

He took her at her word!
But she'd say yes if any one

That's eligible sought her;
She really is a oharming girl,

Though she's my eldest daughter.

THE DEPARTURE FROM PARADISE.

A fine passage from Mrs. Elizaneth Barkett BaowNiNo'e Drama of Exile.

Eve. Is it thy voice?

Or some saluting angel's—calling home
My feet into the garden?

Adam. O my God!

I, standing here between the glory and dark,—
The glory of thy wrath projected forth
From Eden's wall; the dark of our distress,
Which settles a step off in that drear world—
Lift up to Thee the hands from whence hath fallen
Only creation's sceptre,—thanking Thee
That rather Thou hast cast me out with her,
Than left me lorn of her in paradise;—

With angel looks and angel songs around,
To show the absence of her eyes and voice,
And make society full desertness,
Without the uses of her comforting.

Eve. Or is it but a dream of thee, that speaks
Mine own love's tongue?

Adam. . Because with her, I stand

Upright, as far as can be in this fall,
And look away from heaven, which doth accuse me,
And look up from the earth which doth convict me,
Into her face; and crown my discrown'd brow
Out of her love; and put the thought of her
Around me, for an Eden full of birds;
And lift her body up—thus—to my heart;
And with my lips upon her lips,—thus, thus,—
Do quicken and sublimate my mortal breath,
Which cannot climb against the grave's steep sides,
But overtops this grief!

Eve. I am renew'd:

My eyes grow with the light which is in thine;
The silence of my heart is full of sound.
Hold me up—so! Because I comprehend
This human love, I shall not be afraid
Of any human death; and yet because
I know this strength of love, I seem to know
Death's strength, by that same sign. Kiss on my lips,
To shut the door close on my rising soul,—
Lest it pass outwards in astonishment,
And leave thee lonely.

Adam. Yet thou liest, Eve,

Bent heavily on thyself across mine arm,
Thy face flat to the sky.

Eve. Ay! and the tears

Running, as it might seem, my life from me;
They run so fast and warm. Let me lie so,
And weep so,—as if in a dream or prayer,—
Unfastening, clasp by clasp, the hard, tight thought
Which clipp'd my heart, and show'd me evermore
Loathed of thy justice as I loathe the snake,
And as the pure ones loathe our sin. To-day,
All day, heloved, as we fled across
This desolating radiance, cast by swords
Not suns,—my lips prayed soundless to myself,

Rocking against each other—O Lord God!
C"l'was so I pray'd) I ask Thee by my sin,
And by thy curse, and by thy blameless heavens,
Make dreadful haste to hide me from thy face,
And from the face of my beloved here,
For whom I am no help meet, quick away
Into the new dark mystery of death!
I will lie still there; I will make no plaint;
I will not sigh, nor sob, nor speak a word,—
Nor struggle to come back beneath the sun,
Where peradventure I might sin anew
Against thy mercy and his pleasure. Death,
Oh death, whate'er it be, is good enough
For such as I.—For Adam—there's no voice,
Shall ever say again, in heaven or earth,
It is not good for him to be alone.

Adam. And was it good for such a prayer to pass,
My unkind Eve, betwixt our mutual lives?
If I am exiled, must I be bereaved?

Eve. 'Twas an ill prayer: it shall be prayed no more; And God did use it for a foolishness, Giving no answer. Now my heart has grown Too high and strong for such a foolish prayer: Love makes it strong: and since I was the first In the transgression, with a steady foot I will be first to tread from this sword-glare Into the outer darkness of the waste,— And thus I do it.

Adam. Thus I follow thee,

As erewhile in the sin.

WHERE'S MY MONEY?
A clever translation from the German of Gaudy.

Ay, where's my money? That's a puzzling query.

It vanishes. Yet neither in my purse Nor pockets are there any holes. 'Tis very

Incomprehensible. I don't disburse

For superfluities. I wear plain clothes.

I seldom buy jam tarts, preserves, or honey; And no one overlooks what debts he owes

More steadily than I. Where is my money?

I never tipple. Folks don't see me staggering,

Sans cane and castor, in the public street.
I sport no ornaments—not even a bague (ring).

I have a notion that my own two feet
Are much superior to a horse's four,

So never call a jarvey. It is funny. The longer I investigate, the more

Astoundedly I ask, Where is my money T

My money, mind you. Other people's dollars

Cohere together nobly. Only mine
Cut one another. There's that pink of scholars

Von Doppeldronk, he spends as much on wine
As I on—everything. Yet he seems rich,

He laughs, and waxes plumper than a tunny, While I grow slim as a divining-switch,

And search for gold as vainly. Where's my money?

I can't complain that editors don't pay me;

I get for every sheet One Pound Sixteen;
And well I may! My articles are flamy

Enough to blow up any magazine.
What's queerest in the affair though is, that at

The same time I miss nothing but the one. He
That watches me will find I don't lose hat,

Gloves, fogle, stick, or cloak. 'Tis always money.

Were I a rake I'd say so. Where one roysters

Beyond the rules, of course his cash must go. 'Tis true I regularly sup on oysters,

Cheese, brandy, and all that. But even so? What signifies a ducat of a night?

"The barmaids," you may fancy. No. The sunny Loadstar that draws my tin is not the light

From their eyes anyhow. Where then's my money?

However, apropos of eyes and maidens,

I own I do make presents to the sex —
Books, watches, trinkets, music too (not Haydn's),

Combs, shawls, veils, bonnets—things that might perplex

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