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Besides, I heard enough to show
Their love is proof against the snow :-
"Why wait,' he said, 'why wait for May,
When love can warm a winter's day?'

POT-POURRI.

Si jeunesse savait ?"

hand among

I

PLUNGE my

the leaves : (An alien touch but dust perceives,

Nought else supposes ;)
For me those fragrant ruins raise
Clear memory of the vanished days

When they were roses.

“ If youth but knew !” Ah, "if,” in truthI can recall with what gay youth,

To what light chorus,
Unsobered yet by time or change,
We roamed the many-gabled Grange,

All life before us;

Braved the old clock-tower's dust and damp
To catch the dim Arthurian camp

In misty distance ;
Peered at the still-room's sacred stores,
Or rapped at walls for sliding doors

Of feigned existence.

What need had we for thoughts or cares ! The hot sun parched the old parterres

And “ flowerful closes”; We roused the rooks with rounds and glees, Played hide-and-seek behind the trees, –

Then plucked these roses.

Louise was one- - light, glib Louise,
So freshly freed from school decrees

You scarce could stop her;
And Bell, the Beauty, unsurprised
At fallen locks that scandalized

Our dear “Miss Proper :"

Shy Ruth, all heart and tenderness,
Who wept-like Chaucer's Prioress,

When Dash was smitten;
Who blushed before the mildest men,
Yet waxed a very Corday when

You teased her kitten.

I loved them all. Bell first and best ;
Louise the next-for days of jest

Or madcap masking ;
And Ruth, I thought,-why, failing these,
When my High-Mightiness should please,

She'd come for asking.

Louise was grave when last we met ;
Bell's beauty, like a sun, has set ;

And Ruth, Heaven bless her,
Ruth that I wooed,—and wooed in vain,
Has
gone

where neither grief nor pain Can now distress her.

DOROTHY.

A RÊVERIE SUGGESTED BY THE NAME UPON A PANE.

now,

HE then must once have looked, as I

Look across the level rye,-
Past Church and Manor-house, and seen,
As now I see, the village green,
The bridge, and Walton's river-she
Whose old-world name was Dorothy.”

66

The swallows must have twittered, too,
Above her head ; the roses blew
Below, no doubt,-and, sure, the South
Crept up the wall and kissed her mouth,--
That wistful mouth, which comes to me
Linked with her name of Dorothy.

What was she like? I picture her
Unmeet for uncouth worshipper ;-
Soft,-pensive, -far too subtly graced
To suit the blunt bucolic taste,
Whose crude perception could but see
“ Ma'am Fine-airs” in “ Miss Dorothy.”

I

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