"Not all are so that were so in past years; Voices, familiar once, no more he hears; Names, often writ, are blotted out in tears.

"So be it :-joys will end and tears will dryAlbum ! my master bids me wish good-by He'll send you to your mistress presently.

"And thus with thankful heart he closes you : Blessing the happy hour when a friend he knew So gentle, and so generous,

and so true.

"Nor pass the words as idle phrases by ; Stranger! I never writ a flattery,

Nor sign'd the page that register'd a lie."

MRS. KATHERINE'S LANTERN.

WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM.

"COMING from a gloomy court,
Place of Israelite resort,

This old lamp I've brought with me.
Madam, on its panes you'll see
The initials K and E."

"An old lantern brought to me?

Ugly, dingy, battered, black!"

(Here a lady I suppose

Turning up a pretty nose)—

“Pray, sir, take the old thing back.
I've no taste for bric-a-brac."

"Please to mark the letters twain"-
(I'm supposed to speak again)—

"Graven on the lantern pane.
Can you tell me who was she,
Mistress of the flowery wreath,
And the anagram beneath-
The mysterious KE?

"Full a hundred years are gone
Since the little beacon shone
From a Venice balcony:

There, on summer nights, it hung,
And her lovers came and sung
To their beautiful K E.

"Hush! in the canal below
Don't you hear the plash of oars
Underneath the lantern's glow,
And a thrilling voice begins
To the sound of mandolins ?-
Begins singing of amore
And delire and dolore-
O the ravishing tenore !

"Lady, do you know the tune?
Ah, we all of us have hummed it!
I've an old guitar has thrummed it,
Under many a changing moon.
Shall I try it? Do RE MI **
What is this? Ma foi, the fact is,
That my hand is out of practice,
And my poor old fiddle cracked is,
And a man--I let the truth out—
Who's had almost every tooth out,
Cannot sing as once he sung,

When he was young as you are young,
When he was young and lutes were strung,
And love-lamps in the casement hung.'

LUCY'S BIRTHDAY.

SEVENTEEN rose-buds in a ring,
Thick with sister flowers beset,
In a fragrant coronet,
Lucy's servants this day bring.
Be it the birthday wreath she wears
Fresh and fair, and symbolling
The young number of her years,
The sweet blushes of her spring.

Types of youth and love and hope!
Friendly hearts your mistress greet,
Be you ever fair and sweet,
And grow lovelier as you ope!

Gentle nurseling, fenced about
With fond care, and guarded so,

Scarce you've heard of storms without, Frosts that bite, or winds that blow !

Kindly has your life begun,

And we pray that Heaven may send
To our floweret a warm sun,

A calm summer, a sweet end.
And where'er shall be her home,
May she decorate the place;
Still expanding into bloom,
And developing in grace.

THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR.

IN tattered old slippers that toast at the bars, And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars, Away from the world and its toils and its cares, I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs.

To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure, But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure;

And the view I behold on a sunshiny day

Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way.

This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooks With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books, And foolish old odds and foolish old ends,

Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.

Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all crack'd),

Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed;
A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see;

What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me.

No better divan need the Sultan require,
Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire;
And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get
From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet.

That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp;
By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp;
A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn:
'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon.

Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes,

Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times;

As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie

This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.

But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest. There's one that I love and I cherish the best :

For the finest of couches that's padded with hair I never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd chair.

'Tis a bandy-legg'd, high-shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat,

With a creaking old back and twisted old feet; But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there, I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottom'd chair.

If chairs have but feeling, in holding such

charms

A thrill must have pass'd through your wither'd old arms!

I look'd, and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair;
I wished myself turn'd to a cane-bottom'd chair.

It was but a moment she sat in this place, She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face!

A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair, And she sat there, and bloom'd in my canebottom'd chair.

And so I have valued my chair ever since,

Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince;

Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare, The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'd chair.

When the candles burn low, and the company's gone,

In the silence of night as I sit here alone—
I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair-
My Fanny I see in my cane-bottom'd chair.