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Ceremony has made many fools.
It is as easy way unto a duchess
As to a hatted dame, if her love answer:
But that by timorous honours, pale respects,
Idle degrees of fear, men make their ways
Hard of themselves.


'Tis better in a play Be Agamemnon, than himself indeed. How oft, with danger of the field beset, Or with home-mutinies, would he un-be Himself; or, over cruel altnrs weeping, Wish, that with putting off a vizard he Might his true inward sorrow lay aside! The shows of things are better than themselves, How doth it stir this airy part of us To hear our poets tell imagin'd fights And the strange blows that feigned courage gives. When I Achilles hear upon the Stage Speak honour and the greatness of his soul, Methinks I too could on a Phrygian spear Run boldly, and make tales for after times: But when we come to act it in the deed, Death mars this bravery, and the ugly fears Of th' other world sit on the proudest brow: And boasting valour loseth his red cheek.

Tragedy of Nero.


Though storms may break the primrose on its stalk, Though frosts may blight the freshness of its bloom, Yet spring's awakening breath will woo the earth To feed, with kindliest dews, its favourite flower, That blooms in mossy banks and darksome glens, Lighting the greensward with its sunny smile.


Strange that flowers of earth

Are visited by every air that stirs,

And drink in sweetness only, while the child

That shuts within its breast a bloom for heaven,

May take a blemish from the breath of love,

And bear the blight for ever.

I have wept With gladness at the gift of this fair child! My life is bound up in her. But, O God! Thou know'st how heavily my heart at times Bears its sweet burthen : and if thou hast given To nurture such as mine this spotless flower, To bring it unpolluted unto thee, Take thou its love I pray thee ! Give it light— Though, following the sun, it turns from me !— But, by the chord thus wrung, and by the light Shining about her, draw me to my child! And link us close, O God, when near to heaven!

N. P. Willis.


How ruthless men are to adversity!
My acquaintance scarce will know me ; when we meet
They cannot stay to talk, they must be gone;
And shake me by the hand as if I burnt them.



Health floats amid the gentle atmosphere,
Glows in the fruits, and mantles on the stream;
No storm deforms the beaming brow of heaven,
Nor scatters in the freshness of its pride
The foliage of the ever-verdant trees;
But fruits are ever ripe, flowers ever fair,
And autumn proudly bears her matron grace,
Kindling a flush on the fair cheek of spring,
Whose virgin bloom, beneath the ruddy fruit,
Reflects its tint and flushes into love.



Our own heart, and not other men's opinions,
Forms our true honour.



I must have wanton poets, pleasant wits,
Musicians, that with touching of a string
May draw the pliant king which way I please.
Music and poetry are his delight;
Therefore I'll have Italian masks by night,
Sweet speeches, comedies, and pleasing shows;
And in the day, when he shall walk abroad,
Like Sylvan nymphs my pages shall be clad;
My men, like satyrs grazing on the lawns,
Shall with their goat-feet dance the antic hay.
Sometimes a lovely boy in Dian's shape,
With hair that gilds the water as it glides,
Crownets of pearl about his naked arms,
And in his sportful hands an olive tree
To hide those parts which men delight to see,
Shall bathe him in a spring, and there hard by,
One like Acteon, peepmg thro' the grove,
Shall by the angry goddess be transform'd,
And running in the likeness of an hart,
By yelping hounds pull'd down, shall seem to die;
Such things as these best please his majesty.


Great Men's Looks.

Did not the duke look up? methought he saw us.—

That's every one's conceit that sees a duke,

If be look stedfastly, he looks straight at them:
When he perhaps, good careful gentleman,
Never minds any, but the look he casts
Is at his own intentions, and his object
Only the public good.


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 tree—
Curved 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 clingcth

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 I 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."

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A playful little poem by the late Laman Blanchard. It was 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

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