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I did not covet them; but oft,
When wantonly reproved,
I envied her the privilege
Of being so beloved.

But soon a time of triumph came,
A time of sorrow too;

For Sickness o'er my sister's form
Her venomed mantle threw :
The features once so beautiful
Now wore the hue of death;
And former friends shrank fearfully
From her infectious breath.

"T was then, unwearied, day and night, I watched beside her bed,

And fearlessly upon my breast

I pillowed her poor head.

She lived, she loved me for my care;
My grief was at an end;

I was a lonely being once,
But now I have a friend!

T. H. BAYLY.

LESSON CXXVI.

POOR MARGARET.

YES, it would have grieved

Your very soul to see her: evermore

Her eyelids drooped, her eyes were downward cast;
And, when she at her table gave me food,

She did not look at me. Her voice was low,
Her body was subdued. In every act
Pertaining to her house affairs, appeared
The careless stillness of a thinking mind
Self-occupied, to which all outward things
Are like an idle matter.
But yet no motion of the

No heaving of the heart.

Still she sighed,
breast was seen,

While by the fire

We sat together, sighs came on my ear,

I knew not how, and hardly whence they came.

Ere my departure, to her care I gave,

For her son's use, some tokens of regard,

Which, with a look of welcome, she received;
And I exhorted her to have her trust

In God's good love, and seek his help by prayer.
I took my staff, and when I kissed her babe,
The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then
With the best hope and comfort I could give;
She thanked me for my wish; but for my hope
Methought she did not thank me.

I returned,

And took my rounds along this road again,
Ere on its sunny bank the primrose flower
Peeped forth, to give an earnest of the spring.
I found her sad and drooping; she had learned
No tidings of her husband; if he lived,

She knew not that he lived; if he were dead,
She knew not he was dead. She seemed the same
In person and appearance; but her house
Bespoke a sleepy hand of negligence.

The floor was neither dry nor neat; the hearth
Was comfortless: and her small lot of books,
Which, in the cottage window, heretofore
Had been piled up against the corner panes
In seemly order, now, with straggling leaves,
Lay scattered here and there, open or shut,
As they had chanced to fall. Her infant babe
Had from its mother caught the trick of grief,
And sighed among its playthings.

Once again,

Toward the garden gate I turned, and saw,
More plainly still, that poverty and grief
Were now come nearer to her. Weeds defaced
The hardened soil, and knots of withered grass;
No ridges there appeared of clear, black mold,
No winter greenness; of her herbs and flowers,
It seemed the better part were gnawed away,
Or trampled into earth; a chain of straw,
Which had been twined about the slender stem
Of a young apple-tree, lay at its root;
The bark was nibbled round by truant sheep.

Poor Margaret is dead!

The light extinguished of her lonely hut,
The hut itself abandoned to decay,
And she forgotten in the quiet grave!

O sir! the good die first,

And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust,
Burn to the socket. To her hut no one came,

But he was welcome; no one went away,
But that it seemed she loved him.

She was a woman of a steady mind,
Tender and deep in her excess of love,
Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy
Of her own thoughts. By some especial care,
Her temper had been framed, as if to make
A being, who, by adding love to peace,
Might live on earth a life of happiness.

WORDSWORTH

LESSON CXXVII.

THE THREE PAINTERS.

FIRST, Fancy seized the brush, and well
Her magic hues she blent,

As beautiful as if Heaven's bow
Its own bright hues had lent:
But, ere her brush was laid aside,
Each lovely scene had fled,

And not a trace remained to show
The tints her hand had spread.

Next, Feeling, from the heart's rich store,
Her varied hue supplies;

And never sunset clouds could wear

More deep and gorgeous dyes.

"These will not fade." E'en while she spoke,

Her own rude touch effaced

All that with so much anxious skill

The pencil's art had traced.

Then Memory came; with dark, cold tints,
And pencil rude, she drew

The scenes of many a vanished joy,
Which once the sad heart knew.
I looked, in hope her dreary sketch,
Like Fancy's scenes, would fade:
I hoped in vain; fadeless her tints;
She only paints in shade.

MRS. EMBURY.

LESSON CXXVIII.

TEA-PARTIES IN NEW YORK.

THE company commonly assembled at three o'clock, and went away about six; unless it was in winter time, when the fashionable hours were a little earlier, that the ladies might get home before dark. The tea-table was crowned with a huge earthen dish, well stored with slices of fat pork, fried brown, cut up into morsels, and swimming in gravy. The company, being seated around the genial board, and each furnished with a fork, evinced their dexterity in lanching at the fattest pieces in this mighty dish; in much the same manner as sailors harpoon porpoises at sea, or our Indians spear salmon in the lakes. Sometimes, the table was graced with immense apple-pies, or saucers full of preserved peaches and pears; but it was always sure to boast an enormous dish of balls of sweetened dough, fried in hog's fat, and called dough-nuts, a delicious kind of cake, at present scarce known in the city, excepting in genuine Dutch families.

The tea was served out of a majestic, delft tea-pot, ornamented with paintings of fat, little, Dutch shepherds and shepherdesses tending pigs, with boats sailing in the air, and houses built in the clouds, and sundry other ingenious Dutch fantasies. The beaux distinguished themselves by their adroitness in replenishing this pot, from a huge, copper tea-kettle, which would have made the pigmy macaronies of these degenerate days sweat merely to look at it. To sweeten the beverage, a lump of sugar was laid beside each cup; and the company alternately nibbled and sipped with great decorum, until an improvement was introduced by a shrewd and economic old lady, which was, to suspend a large lump directly over the teatable, by a string from the ceiling, so that it could be swung from mouth to mouth.

At these primitive tea-parties, the utmost propriety and dignity of deportment prevailed. No flirting nor coquetting, no gambling of old ladies, nor hoiden chattering and romping of young ones; no self-satisfied struttings of wealthy gentlemen, with their brains in their pockets, nor amusing conceits, and monkey. divertisements, of smart young gentlemen, with no brains at all. On the contrary, the young ladies seated

themselves demurely in their rush-bottomed chairs, and knit their own woolen stockings; nor ever opened their lips, excepting to say, "Yes, sir," or "Yes, madam," to any question that was asked them; behaving, in all things, like decent, well educated damsels. As to the gentlemen, each of them tranquilly smoked his pipe, and seemed lost in contemplation of the blue and white tiles, with which the fire-places were decorated.

The parties broke up without noise and without confusion. They were carried home by their own carriages, that is to say, by the vehicles nature had provided for them, excepting such of the wealthy as could afford to keep a wagon. The gentlemen gallantly attended their fair ones to their respective abodes, and took leave of them at the door.

W. IRVING.

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ON TASTE AND BEAUTY IN DRESS.

In no way have civilized beings played more fantastic tricks, than in the matter of dress. The influence of fashion is so strong in corrupting the eye, and perverting the taste, that it has led some persons to doubt the existence of any true standard of beauty in costume. There are, however, some forms of dress which appear beautiful to us, after they have ceased to be the reigning mode. These are in general simple and unpretending. The occasional triumph of good taste over fashion is shown by the frequent return of pretty shapes. I would have young people look at every thing with an eye of taste, and so modify their compliance with the prevailing mode, as not to sacrifice to it their sense of beauty.

Mere fashion should never be allowed to triumph over common sense or good taste. Neither do I mean to recommend a wide departure from it. Ingenuity should be called up to invent a modification, which shall combine beauty with fashion. I have seen two young ladies with equal pretensions to personal beauty, one of whom was arrayed in a French embroidered cape, that cost twenty-five dollars; while the other was

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