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I would, I had some flowers o' the spring, that might
Become your time of day: and yours, and yours;
O Proserpina,

For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou let'st fall
From Dis's wagon! daffodils

That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March, with beauty; violets, dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes,
Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses,
That die unmarried, ere they can behold
Bright Phoebus in his strength.

Bold oxlips, and

The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds,

The flower-de-luce being one! O, these I lack,
To make you garlands of; and, my sweet friend,
To strew him o'er and o'er.

Come, take your flowers: Methinks, I play as I have seen them do

In Whitsun' pastorals; sure, this robe of mine
Does change my disposition.

Flo.

What you do,

Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet,
I'd have you do it ever; when you sing,

I'd have you buy and sell so; so give alms;
Pray so; and for the ordering your affairs,

Pray sing them too: When you dance I wish you

A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that; move still, still so, and own
No other function: Each your doing,

So singular in each particular,

Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds,
That all your acts are queens.

O Doricles,

Per.
Your praises are too large; but that your youth,
And the true blood which fairly peeps through it,
Do plainly give you out an unstain'd shepherd;
With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles,

You'd woo me the the false way.

Flo.

I think, you have

As little skill to fear, as I have purpose

To put you to 't.-But, come; our dance, I pray :
Your hand, my Perdita: so turtles pair,

That never mean to part.

Per.

I'll swear for 'em.

Pol. This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever Ran on the greensward: nothing she does or seems But smacks of something greater than herself;

Too noble for this place.

Cam. He tells her something,

That makes her blood look out: Good sooth, she is The queen of curds and cream.

Clo.

Come on, strike up music.

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.-HOOD.

"Drowned! drowned!"-Hamlet

One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;-
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.-

Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,
Gentle and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her
Now, is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful;

Past all dishonor,

Death has left on her

Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers,

One of Eve's family

Wipe those poor lips of hers

Oozing so clammily.

Loop up her tresses

Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses;
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?

Who was her father?

Who was her mother?

Had she a sister?

Had she a brother?

Or was there a dearer one
Still and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?

Alas for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh! it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly,

Fatherly, motherly,

Feelings had changed:

Love, by harsh evidence,

Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.

Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river

With many a light

From window and casement,

From garret to basement,
She stood with amazement,
Houseless by night.

The bleak winds of March

Made her tremble and shiver;

But nor the dark arch,

Or the black flowing river;
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurl'd-
Anywhere, anywhere,
Out of the world!

In she plunged boldly
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran-
Picture it-think of it,
Dissolute Man!
Lave in it, drink of it
Then, if you can!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!

Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,

Decently-kindly—

Smoothe and compose them;

And her eyes, close them,

Staring so blindly,

Dreadfully staring

Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing,
Fixed on futurity!

Perishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest.-

Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!

Owning her weakness,

Her evil behavior,

And leaving, with meekness,

Her sins to her Saviour!

CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE-FREDERICK S. Cozzens.

We begin to enjoy the clouds since we have moved out of town. The city sky is all strips and patches; but the sky of the country forms a very comfortable whole. Then, you have the horizon, of which you get an imperfect idea if you live in a crooked street; and besides, you can see distant rain storms passing over far-off landscapes, and as the light-winged breeze comes sweeping up and you feel the approaching dampness, there is a freshness and fragrance in it which is not at all like the miasmatic exhalations of a great city. Then, when the rain does come it is not simply an inconvenience, as it always is in town, but a real blessing, which even the stupid old cabbages know enough to enjoy. I think our musk-melons feel better now, as they lie there in sandy beds sucking the delicious fluid through their long vinous tubes. I think our Shaker corn, as he gives himself a rousing shake, and flings the big drops around him, does so with a species of boisterous joy, as if he could not have too much of it; and Monsieur Tomato, who is capering like Humpty Dumpty on the wall, is evidently in high feather, which is not the case with our forlorn rooster, who is but poorly protected under the old basket, yonder. The rain came from the southwest. We saw the clouds rolling up over the Palisades in round masses, with a movement like

puffs of smoke rolling up from the guns of a frigate. It was a dead calm; not a pensile leaf twinkled; the flat expanse of the river was without a ripple. We saw the conglomerated volumes of snow-white vapor ascending to the zenith, and below lay the Hudson, roughening in the now audibly approaching breeze. Meanwhile the sky grew ashy pale in the southwest, and the big clouds overhead were sometimes veined with lightning, which was reflected momently by the darkening water. Just below us we heard the quick rattle of the rings, as the wood sloops dropped and reefed their broad sails in anticipation of the squall. Everything around us reposed in a sort of supernatural twilight, the grass turned gray and old, the tree trunks changed to iron, the air seemed denser, sullener, sultrier. Then a little breeze prattled through the chestnuts, and whitened the poplars. Then it subsided. Then the white cloud above appeared a tangle of dazzling light, and a sharp fusilade followed on the instant. Then Mrs. Sparrowgrass got frightened, and said she must go in, and as she said so, the wind pounced upon her and carried up her sunbonnet at least three hundred feet above tide water. Then it slammed to every door in the house, prostrated my Lima beans, howled down the chimney, roared and whistled through the trees, tore the dust from the road, and poured it through our open windows, hurried off the big gate, laid it on my pie-plants, blew down my bee-hive, liberated all my bees, who instantly settled upon our watch dog and stung him so that he ran away and did not return until the following Sunday.

Nevertheless, the scenery around was marvellously beautiful. South of us a grey rain-curtain was drawn across the river, shutting out everything beyond, except the spectral masts and spars of a schooner riding at anchor. The Palisades started up in the gloom, as their precipitous masses were revealed by the flashes of unearthly light that played through the rolling clouds. The river before us, flecked with snow, stretched away to the north, where it lay partly in sunshine, under a blue sky, dappled with fleecy vapors. Inland, the trees were twisted in attitudes strikingly picturesque and novel; the scud flew before the blast like spray, and below it the swells and slopes of livid green had an aspect so unusual that it seemed as if I had been transported into a strange place-a far countrie. Our cottage, too, which I had planned and built, changed its tinted walls to stark, staring white, with window-panes black as ink. From room to room Mrs. Sparrowgrass flitted like a phantom,

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