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STANZAS. Taken from Chambers's Journal where they appeared anonymously. Still the same, ever the same, this outward face of things ! Time but toucheth it gently ; little the change it brings. Here where we sat together spreadeth the self-same treeCurved and matted the branches, just as they used to be. Even the rich-toned lichen keepeth its place and form, Mellowing the old gray oak-bark, tinting it sunset warm. Grandly the dome of beech-trees archeth the old wood

o'er; Vividly fretteth the sorrel the deep brown beech-leaf floor. Even the delicate flowers cling to the self-same spot; Meadow-sweet decks the river, and blue forget-me-not; Close to the feathery larch-tree the woodbine clingeth

still, The wild-rose scents the valley, the golden gorse, the hill. Cruel, O cruel Nature ! put away the treacherous veil! Put away the smile of mockery-tell us a truer tale! Shatter the painful image of thy changeless trees and

stones! Thou art a whited sepulchre all full of mould'ring bones! Green is the grass above our graves ; dearer the death

below; No wood-songs bring our music back-it ceased too long

ago; Why should thy soulless beauty, then, thus everlasting

seem, The while our living flowers fade, and vanish like a dream ? Thus spake I, standing lonely in the old unchanging

scene, Marking the empty setting where the living gems had

been; But the solemn voice of nature rose on the wind and said: " Why wilt thou still be seeking the living amid the dead? The seed and the berry moulder, and the hard stone

mouldereth not ; But where rise the beauteous flowers ?-where the seed and

the berry rot.”

VOL. VI.

It was

THE GAME AT CHESS. A playful little poein by the late LAMAN BLANCHARD. contributed to one of the Annuals.

Love with a lady-would you know

Her name, then read this heart, for there
'Tis written, like the words of woe,

Imprinted in the hyacinth fair, —
Love with a lady played,—but where,

Or when, or how, 'tis yours to guess ;
Enough if we this truth declare,

Love with a lady play'd at chess !

Most innocent, and calm, and high,

The mind which in that lady's face
Was mirror'd, as the morning sky

In a clear brook's green dwelling-place,

And, robed in each serenest grace,
She mused, more tranquil than the dove;

So there, as time flew on apace,
The lady play'd at chess with Love.
'Twas like a dream to see them play:

So deeply, marvellously still.
And hush'd in charm'd thought, sat they,

One influence of the tyrant will

Controlling both, for well or ill !
And surely in that silentness

Angels, on heaven's own azure hill,
Watch'd the sweet pair who play'd at chess.
But see, a smile succeeds to doubt

In ber fair eyes—they see “the move;"
And swift as thought she stretches out

Her small white hand, without a glove,

And moves the piece-below, above,
Across, on all sides, unafraid,

Joy in her soul; and thus with Love
Her game of chess the lady play'd.
What is the world, and what is life,

To her whose heart is in the game!
The bliss of that ingenious strife

Is dear to her as health or fame!
With whomsoe'er she plays, the same;
E'en losing has some power to bless :

And were Love dead, she'd feel no shame
To sit with Hatred down to chess!

Love, brooding o'er the board grows dull,

And, beaten, seems but half awake; Her hope meanwhile grows ripe and full,

She takes whate'er she wills to take; When lo ! what nothings sometimes make A mighty shock! That lady's lip

Quivers with some convulsive acheHer hand just touch'd Love's finger-tip.

Her heedless band! while wandering o'er

Eager to snatch the ivory prize,
It touch'd Love's lightly once-no more!

How can a touch thus paralyse ?

How flush her cheeks, how fire her eyes,
How fill her soul with sweet distress,

Delight, despair, beyond disguise,
And make her lose—that game at chess ?

His eyes had been on hers for hours,

Yet knew she not that Love had gazed ; His breath had warm'd her cheek's rich flowers

And still these thoughts were all unraised. Now sits she like a thing amazed ; Her chance at every move grows less ;

She plays at random-one so crazed Ne'er lost nor gain'd a game at chess.

Thoughts of the player crowd above

Thoughts of the game, that else would press, She only feels she plays with Love;

She does not know she plays at chess.

Her dog might spring with wild caress,
Mother or sister tilt the board

And she know no emotion less
Or more, of all her heart must board!

King, queen, that heart hath quite forgot ; .

No knight bath sway there, but a swain ;
No castle seeks she, but a cot;

No bishop, but a curate plain.

Such is Love's fine electric chain;
One touch hath done it! Need he sue ?

No: ere be'd time to touch again,
He'd won the game—and lady too!

CHRISTMAS RHYMES. Taken from an old newspaper where it appears anonymously. It marvellously resembles the style of BARRY CORNWALL.

WINTER cold is coming on;
No more calls the cuckoo;
No more doth the music gush
From the silver-throated thrush ;
No more now at “ evening pale”
Singeth sad the nightingale ;
Nor the blackbird on the lawn;
Nor the lark at dewy dawn.
Time hath wove his songs anew :
No more young and dancing measures;
No more budding flowery pleasures;
All is over,--all forgot ;
Save by me, who loved them not.
Winter white is coming on;
And I love bis coming.
What, though winds the fields have shorn,
What though earth is half forlorn,
Not a berry on the thorn,
Not an insect humming;
Pleasure never can be dead;
Beauty cannot bide her head !
Look! in what fantastic shower,
The snow flings down her feather'd flower,
Or wbirls about, in drunken glee,
Kissing its love, the holly tree:
Behold! the sun himself comes forth,
And sends his beams from south to north,

To diamonds turns the winter rime,
And lends a glory to the time!
Such days, when old friends meet together,
Are worth a score of mere spring weather.
And hark!-the merry bells awake:
They clamour blithely for our sake !
The clock is sounding from the tower,
“ Four "_" five”_'tis now _ 's dinner hour!
Come on, I see his table spread,
The sherry,claret (rosy red),
The champagne sparkling in the light,
By Bacchus! we'll be wise to-night!

WINTER.

JAMES SMITH has written some lines on Winter, which have much of the spirit of the old English poets.

The mill-wheel's frozen in the stream,

The church is deck'd with holly;
Mistletoe hangs from the kitchen beam,

To fright away melancholy;
Icicles clink in the milkmaid's pail,

Younkers skate in the pool below;
Blackbirds perch on the garden rail,

And bark, how the cold winds blow;

There goes the squire to shoot at snipe,

Here runs Dick to fetch a log ;
You'd swear his breath was the smoke of a pipe

In the frosty morning fog.
Hodge is breaking the ice for the kine,

Old and young cough as they go;
The round red sun forgets to shine,

And hark, how the cold winds blow!

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