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THE VILLAGE BELLS.

'Twas evening when I left the vale,

That nursed my boyish years
My father's manly cheek was pale,

My inother's wet with tears ;
Then borne upon the breeze of night,

I heard the distant bells
Come o'er those waters, coldly bright,

With all their breathing spells ;-
Sweet village bells! sweet village bells !
With all their breathing spells.

The stars are in the blue sky set,

And light is on the sea,
And some that parted—now are met-

But who shall welcome me?
They light not home's unwreathed bowers,

of whom my spirit tells,
Nor come, as when in happier hours

I heard those village bells ;-
Sweet village bells! sweet village bells !
With all their breathing spells.

ANON.

BEFORE THE DRAWING-ROOM.

I MUST be presented to-day, Lady Susan,

I must be presented to-day,
I must be presented, or what will

my

cousin The bride, Lady Mackintosh, say! She married a man who was knighted last season

For carrying up an address ;
If she's a great lady, you'll own there's no reason,

My lady, why I should be less !
I must be presented to-day, Lady Susan,

I must be presented to-day.

Now pray, Lady Susan, don't say that you're poorly,

'Tis plain that you wish to withdraw; You married my brother, and I've a right, surely,

To go with my sister-in-law!
And though you consider us vulgar relations,

Some proper repayment there'll be,
For Brother Bob's diamond and pearl presentations,

In this presentation of me.
I must be presented to-day, Lady Susan,

I must be presented to-day.

Look at me, my lady—'t is silly to quarrel,

You'll own that I'm fit to be seen;
My yellow silk petticoat loop'd up with laurel,

(so elegant, yellow and green!)
My train of blue satin! (judiciously chosen,

Twill make a pelisse in the spring,)
And then my red feathers! I'm sure, Lady Susan,

I must be remark'd by the king.
I must be presented to-day, Lady Susan,

I must be presented to-day.

A train may look very magnificent, flowing

Behind one in folds, I dare say,
But as for a hoop! Oh, I could not bear going

To court in that round-about way!
My lappets! nice lace what's the use now of buying

Three yards ?-it is quite a take-in;
And why did you laugh when you saw I was tying

Them gracefully under my chin?
I must be presented to day, Lady Susan.

I must be presented to-day

And what's to be done when I stand in the presence ?

Pray tell-I rely upon you ;
Must I civilly say, as I make my obeisance,

"Your majesty, how do you do?"
To be kiss'd by the king! Lady Susan, assist me,

I shall not be fit to be seen!

What! kiss me in public! Oh! when he has kiss'd me,

I sha'n't dare to look at the queen!
I must be presented to-day, Lady Susan,
I will be presented to-day.

T. H. BAILEY.

ON THE DECAY OF BEAUTY.
THERE is a sweetness in woman's decay,
When the light of beauty is fading away,
When the bright enchantment of youth is gone,
And the tints that glow'd, and the eye that shone
And darted around its glance of power,
And the lip that vied with the sweetest flower
That ever in Pæstum's garden blew,
Or ever was steep'd in fragrant dew-
When all that was bright and fair is fled,
But the loveliness lingering round the dead.

0! there is a sweetness in beauty's close,
Like the perfume scenting a wither'd rose ;
For a nameless charm around her plays,
And her eyes are kindled with hallow'd rays;
And a veil of spotless purity
Has mantled her cheek with its heavenly dye,
Like a cloud, whereon the Queen of night
Has pour'd her softest tint of light;
And there is a blending of white and blue
Where the purple blood is melting through
The snow of her pale and tender cheek;
And there are tones that sweetly speak
Of a spirit who longs for a purer day,
And is ready to wing her flight away.
In the flush of youth, and the spring of feeling,
When life, like a sunny stream, is stealing
Its silent steps through flowery path,
And all the endearments that pleasure hath

Are pour'd from the full o'erflowing horn,
When the rose of enjoyment conceals no thorn-
In her lightness of heart, to the cheery song,
The maiden may trip in the dance along,
And think of the passing moment, that lies
Like a fairy dream in her dazzled eyes,
And yield to the present, that charms around
With all that is lovely in sight and sound-
Where a thousand pleasing phantoms flit,
With the voice of mirth, and the burst of wit,
And the music that steals to the bosom's core,
And the heart in its fullness flowing o'er
With a few big drops that are soon represt-
(For short is the stay of grief in her breast):
In this enliven'd and gladsome hour
The spirit may burn with a brighter power ;
But dearer the calm and quiet day.
When the heaven-sick soul is stealing away.

And when her sun is low declining,
And life wears out with no repining,
And the whisper that tells of early death
Is soft as the west wind's balmy breath,
When it comes at the hour of still repose,
To sleep in the breast of the wooing rose;
And the lip that swell’d with a living glow,
Is pale as a curl of new-fallen snow;
And her cheek, like the Parian stone, is fair,
But the hectic spot that flushes there;
When the tide of life from its secret dwelling,
In a sudden gush is deeply swelling
And giving a tinge to her icy lips,
Like the crimson rose's brightest tips,
As richly red, and as transient too,
As the clouds in Autumn's sky of blue,
That seem like a host of glory met
To honour the sun at his golden set:
O! then, when the spirit is taking wing,
How fondly her thoughts to her dear one cling,

As if she would blend her soul with his
In a deep and long-imprinted kiss ;
So fondly the panting camel flies,
Where the glassy vapour cheats his eyes ;
And the dove from the falcon seeks her nest,
And the infant shrieks in its mother's breast
And though her dying voice be mute,
Or faint as the tones of an unstrung lute,
And though the glow of her cheek be filed,
And her pale lips cold as the marble dead,
Her eye still beams unwonted fires
With a woman's love and a saint's desires ;
And her last fond lingering look is given,
To the love she leaves, and then to heaven;
As if she would bear that love away
To a purer world and a brighter day.

J: S. PERCIVAL.

THE CRUSADER.

He is come from the land of the sword and shrine,
From the sainted battles of Palestine;
The snow plumes wave o'er his victor crest-
Like a glory the red cross hangs at his breast;
The courser is black as black can be,
Save the brow-star, white as the foam of the sea.
And he wears a scarf of broidery rare,
The last love-gift of his lady fair :
It bore for device a cross and a dove,
And the words,“ I am vow'd to my God and my love!"
He comes not back the same that he went,
For his sword has been tried, and his strength has

been spent ;
His golden hair has a deeper brown,
And his brow has caught a darker frown,
And his lip hath lost its boyish red,
And the shade of the south o'er his cheek is spread;

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