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There's not on earth a jewel

That's worth one grief-born tear. Long may the heart be silent If sorrow's touch alone, Upon the chords descending, Has power to wake its tone. I'd never be a poet,

My bounding heart to hush And lay down at the altar

For sorrow's foot to crush.
Ah, no! I'll gather sunshine

For coming evening's hours,
And while its springtime lingers
I'll
garner up its flowers.

I fain would learn the music
Of those who dwell in heaven,
For woe-tuned harp was never
To seraph-fingers given.
But I will strive no longer

To waste my heartfelt mirth:
I will mind me that the gifted
Are the stricken ones of earth.

EMILY C. JUDSON.

TWO LOVERS.

WO lovers by a moss-grown spring: They leaned soft cheeks together there, Mingled the dark and sunny hair, And heard the wooing thrushes sing.

O budding time!
O love's blest prime!

Two wedded from the portal stept:
The bells made happy carollings;
The air was soft as fanning wings,
White petals on the pathway slept.

O pure-eyed bride!
O tender pride!

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What cruel answer have I heard?
And yet, by Heaven, I love thee still;
Can aught be cruel from thy lip?
Yet say how fell that bitter word
From lips which streams of sweetness fill,
Which naught but drops of honey sip?

Go boldly forth, my simple lay,
Whose accents flow with artless ease,
Like Orient pearls at random strung:

Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say;
But oh, far sweeter if they please

II.

I WOULD NOT SHRINK.

I WOULD not shrink if some dear ghost,
One of the dead's unnumbered host,
Should rise in silence of the night
Shrined in an aureole of light
And pale as snowdrop in the frost.

No! If the brother loved and lost
For me the silent river crossed,
For me left worlds all fair and bright,
I would not shrink.

The nymph for whom these notes are Oh, if I gauge my heart aright,

sung.

Translation of SIR WILLIAM JONES.

Dear would the dead be to my sight:

A vision from the other coast Of one on earth I cherished most Would be a measureless delight;

I would not shrink.

CHARLES D. BELL.

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HE

THE GOLDEN RINGLET.

ERE is a little golden tress
Of soft unbraided hair,

The all that's left of loveliness

That once was thought so fair;

And yet, though time hath dimmed its sheen,

Though all beside hath fled,

I hold it here, a link between
My spirit and the dead.

Yes, from this shining ringlet stiil
A mournful memory springs
That melts my heart and sheds a thrill
Through all its trembling strings:

I think of her, the loved, the wept,
Upon whose forehead fair

For eighteen years like sunshine slept
This golden curl of hair.

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Shall we build to Affection and Love?

Ah, no! they have withered and died,

Or fled with the spirit above;

His only thought how best himself to please. Of richest wines he had an endless store: These are his pride, and oft as lovingly

Friends, brothers and sisters are laid side by As they were children he will tell their age; His city house, his mansion by the sea,

side,

Yet none have saluted, and none have Alternately his jovial hours engage;

replied.

Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve; Not a sob, not a sigh, meets mine ear

Which compassion itself could relieve. Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love nor fear:

So great his wealth it hourly groweth more.

A little luck, a little keen address,
A little kindly help in time of need,
A little industry and touch of greed,
Have made his life a singular success,
And he asks homage for his splendid gains,

"Peace, peace!" is the watchword-the only Paying the flattery in meats and drinks;

one here.

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah, no! for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow: Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the

dark stone,

Applauding friends he daily entertains,

To ease him of himself. Sometimes he thinks

If he were poor his friends might love him less.

Gray-headed Reginald! he has royal parts Are the signs of a sceptre that none may And in all circles fills an honored seat;

disown.

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Yet vain for him are maidens' accents sweet:
At wedded slavery and henpecked hearts.
He jeers and laughs; though when the nights
are cold,

The tables empty and he feels alone,
A memory breaks of purer joys of old,
And, selfish to the last, he thinks of one

Who might have soothed him with her gentle

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HERBERT KNOWLES.

ALONE.

SO Reginald is still a bachelor,

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Not young, yet youthful, studious of There was no way to 'scape the dart;

his ease,

No care could guard the lover's heart.

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