Left with the dregs of life, its wine poured out; Left to the past a prey; From its sad ghosts that haunt my heart about, Helpless to flee away. No! I renounce life's bliss-love's perfect flower, Sweet though it be !-I choose The lower, lasting lot, and keep the power, Without a pang, to lose. W. W. STORY. WINDLE-STRAWS. I. @ERE life to last for ever, love, We might go hand in hand, And pause and pull the flowers that blow And we might lie in sunny fields And while the hours away With fallings-out and fallings-in For half a summer day. But since we two must sever, love, I have no time to give thee much 66 But quickly take my heart, 'For ever thine," and "thine my love," O Death may come apace. What more of love could life bestow, Dearest, than this embrace? II. HE kissed me on the forehead, The silence flowed between us, And I nor spoke nor stirred. So hopeless for my sake it was, So full of ruth, so sweet, My whole heart rose and blessed her, -Then died before her feet. EDWARD DOWDEN. BAGATELLES. HE wanton bee that suck'd the rose The love that in my bosom glows And when the rose began to die, But Kitty in my love shall lie I'd like to be the lavender That makes her linen sweet, And swoon and sweeten in her breast, She'd hardly think of me at all, And shake out lawn and sheet; And yet I'd be the lavender And make her linen sweet. THEOPHILE MARZIALS. I TRAGEDIES. HE reach'd a rosebud from the tree, The worst is over when we die ! For love is like the China-rose That leafs so quickly from the tree ;And life, though all the honey goes, Lasts ever, like the pot pourri. She was only a woman, famish'd for loving, And used to finger his fiddle-strings. Her heart's sweet gamut is cracking and breaking For a look, for a touch,-for such slight things; But he's such a very great musician, Grimacing and fing'ring his fiddle-strings. |