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That pavement damp and cold.

No smiling courtiers tread;

One silent woman stands,

Lifting with meagre hands,

A dying head.

No mingling voices sound-
An infant wail alone;

A sob suppress'd—again

That short deep gasp-and then
The parting groan.

Oh! change-Oh! wondrous change!
Burst are the prison bars!

This moment there, so low,

So agonized and now
Beyond the stars!

Oh change-stupendous change!
Their lies the soul-less clod!

The sun eternal breaks

The new immortal wakes

Wakes with his God.

CAROLINE BOWLES.

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THE QUARREL.

'HUSH, Joanna! 'tis quite certain That the coffee was not strong; Own your error, I'll forgive you,—

Why so stubborn in the

wrong?

?"

"You'll forgive me! Sir, I hate you! You have used me like a churl; Have my senses ceased to guide me? Do you think I am a girl?"

"Oh, no! you're a girl no longer,
But a woman formed to please;
And it's time you should abandon
Childish follies such as these."

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'Oh, I hate you! but why vex me? If I'm old, you're older still; I'll no longer be your victim, And the creature of your will."

"But, Joanna, why this pother?
It might happen I was wrong!
But, if common sense inspire me-
Still, that coffee was not strong."

E

"Common sense! you never had it;

Oh, that ever I was born!

To be wedded to a monster

Who repays my love with scorn.

"Well, Joanna, we'll not quarrel;
What's the use of bitter strife?

But I'm sorry I am married,-
I was mad to take a wife."

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Mad, indeed! I'm glad you know it; But, if law can break the chain,

I'll be tied to you no longer

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In this misery and pain."

Hush, Joanna! shall the servants
Hear you argue ever wrong?

Can you not have done with folly ?-
Own the coffee was not strong."

"Oh! you goad me past endurance,
Trifling with my woman's heart!
But I loathe you, and detest you,-
Villain! monster! let us part!

Long this foolish quarrel lasted,
Till Joanna half afraid
That her empire was in peril,

Summon'd never-failing aid;

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Summon'd tears, in copious torrents,-
Tears, and sobs, and piteous sighs;
Well she knew the potent practice,
The artillery of the eyes.

And it chanced as she imagined,—
Beautiful in grief was she,-
Beautiful to best advantage,

And a tender heart had he.

Kneeling at her side, he soothed her,
"Dear Joanna! I was wrong;
Nevermore I'll contradict you,—
But, oh make my coffee strong!

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MACKAY.

THE RUINED

COTTAGE.

NONE will dwell in that cottage, for they say
Oppression reft it from an honest man,
And that a curse clings to it: hence the vine
Trails its weight of leaves upon the ground,
Hence weeds are in the garden, hence the hedge,
Once sweet with honey-suckle, is half dead;
And hence the grey moss on the apple tree.
One once dwelt there who had been in his youth
A soldier; and when many years were passed,

He sought his native village, and sat down
To end his days in peace. He had one child;
A little laughing thing, whose dark eyes,

He said, were like her mother's she had left
Buried in a stranger's land; and time went on
In comfort and content—and that girl

Had grown

far taller than the red rose tree
Her father planted on her first English birth-day;
And he had trained it up against an ash
Till it became his pride-it was so rich
In blossom and in beauty, it was called
The tree of Isabel! 'Twas an appeal
To all the better feelings of the heart
To mark their quiet happiness; their home,
In truth, a home of love; and more than all,
To see them on the Sabbath, when they came
Among the first to church; and Isabel,

With her bright color, and her clear blue eyes,
Bowed down so meekly in the house of prayer;
And in the hymn her sweet voice audible:
Her father looked so fond of her, and then
From her looked up so thankfully to Heaven!
And their small cottage was so very neat;

Their garden filled with fruits, and herbs, and flowers;
And in the winter there was no fireside
So cheerful as their own. But other days
And other fortunes came-an evil power!
They bore against it cheerfully and hoped
For better times, but ruin came at last;
And the old soldier left his own dear home,

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