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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.
A RÊVERIE SUGGESTED BY THE NAME UPON A PANE.
HE then must once have looked, as I
Look now, 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."
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."
How not? She loved, may be, perfume,
Soft textures, lace, a half-lit room ;-
Perchance too candidly preferred
"Clarissa" to a gossip's word;—
And, for the rest, would seem to be
Or proud, or dull—this Dorothy.
Poor child!—with heart the down-lined nest
Of warmest instincts unconfest,
Soft, callow things that vaguely felt
The breeze caress, the sunlight melt,
But yet, by some obscure decree
Unwinged from birth ;-poor Dorothy!
Not less I dream her mute desire
To acred churl and booby squire,
Now pale, with timorous eyes that filled
At "twice-told tales" of foxes killed ;-
Now trembling when slow tongues grew free
'Twixt sport, and Port-and Dorothy!
'Twas then she'd seek this nook, and find
Its evening landscape balmy-kind;
And here, where still her gentle name
Lives on the old green glass, would frame
Fond dreams of unfound harmony
'Twixt heart and heart. Poor Dorothy !
These last I spoke. Then Florence said,
Below me,-"Dreams? Delusions, Fred!"
Next with a pause,—she bent the while
Over a rose, with roguish smile—
"But how disgusted, sir, you'll be
To hear I scrawled that 'Dorothy.'"
"On serait tenté de lui dire, Bonjour, Mademoiselle la Bergeronnette."-VICTOR HUGO.
HOUGH the voice of modern schools
By the dreamy Asian creed
That the souls of men, released
From their bodies when deceased,
Sometimes enter in a beast,-
Or a bird.
I have watched you long, Avice,-
Watched you so,
I have found your secret out;
And I know
That the restless ribboned things,
your slope of shoulder springs,
Are but undeveloped wings
That will grow.
When you enter in a room,