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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.




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."

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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

Has demurred,


By the dreamy Asian creed

'Tis averred,

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,

It is stirred

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