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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.”
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
Imprinted in the hyacinth fair, —
Or when, or how, 'tis yours to guess ;
Love with a lady play'd at chess !
Most innocent, and calm, and high,
The mind which in that lady's face
In a clear brook's green dwelling-place,
And, robed in each serenest grace,
So there, as time flew on apace,
So deeply, marvellously still.
One influence of the tyrant will
Controlling both, for well or ill !
Angels, on heaven's own azure hill,
In ber fair eyes—they see “the move;"
Her small white hand, without a glove,
And moves the piece-below, above,
Joy in her soul; and thus with Love
To her whose heart is in the game!
Is dear to her as health or fame!
And were Love dead, she'd feel no shame
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,
How can a touch thus paralyse ?
How flush her cheeks, how fire her eyes,
Delight, despair, beyond disguise,
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,
And she know no emotion less
King, queen, that heart hath quite forgot ; .
No knight bath sway there, but a swain ;
No bishop, but a curate plain.
Such is Love's fine electric chain;
No: ere be'd time to touch again,
CHRISTMAS RHYMES. Taken from an old newspaper where it appears anonymously. It marvellously resembles the style of BARRY CORNWALL.
WINTER cold is coming on;
To diamonds turns the winter rime,
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;
To fright away melancholy;
Younkers skate in the pool below;
And bark, how the cold winds blow;
There goes the squire to shoot at snipe,
Here runs Dick to fetch a log ;
In the frosty morning fog.
Old and young cough as they go;
And hark, how the cold winds blow!