TÓ MARY, SLEEPING IN AN ARBOUR.

THOU feigning fair one, ope thine eyes!
She hears me not: My darling dear
Seems dreaming more of Paradise

Than of her lover's presence near !

Such sacred calm surrounds her bower,
So rich the balm its blooms dispense,

I marvel not my fairer flower

ม

Thus sleeps the sleep of innocence.

Well may the zephyrs fanning her

Be glad to pilfer from her breath;
I trow they find more fragrance there
Than in all flowers that grace the heath.

She dreams, methinks. Ah! can it be
The vision of some chaste embrace
That causes that warm blush I see
Quick-crimsoning her neck and face?

My beautiful, my darling one!

How fondly round that neck I'd throw
My arms, save that no mortal man
Seems pure enough to touch its snow!

Those lips, of Phydian curve divine,

That bosom too, fair-heaving nigh, Once-only once-to press to mine,

Methinks that I could gladly die!

Her guardian angel, hovering near,
Could hardly blame me much, I trow,
If, tempted by a chance so rare,

I kissed at least her lily brow.

Hush, hush, my heart, thy wild ado!
Here, freedom such as that would be

A sin 'gainst her and heaven too,
So pure, so holy, seemeth she!

A DAY WITH THE MUSE.

(The following effusion was written by way of apology to a friend who expected the author to devote his "next holiday" to the production of a poem wanted for a certain national celebration, then at hand--a task which he unluckily failed to accomplish.)

"THERE'S no place like home:"

Quite true, I presume,

If spoken regarding the Deaf and the Dumb.

A bard, I opine,

Should at least be both these,

In a home such as mine

To feel much at his ease

Though each one of the Nine

Did her utmost to please.

Just fancy a house with a dozen or so

Of hearty young hopefuls, all train'd á la Combe

A day to myself, and the muse all a-glow,

Some web, long bespoken, to work off her loom!

The breakfast is taken,-
As deskward I draw,
The young ones I beckon
Away with "Mamma;"
On silence I reckon-
My word being law.
All right--so I think,-

Not the ghost of a sound;
The muse in a blink

At my elbow is found, When-horror to hear!

Comes some ash-man's loud knock;

That man, it is clear,

Thinks our door is a rock!

Anon, shouts the baker

"Bread wanted to-day?" "The baby's awake here' Cries Fanny to May, While Betty-deuce take her! Falls down with a tray.

A cry of despair

Is now heard up the stair

'Tis Angie, who will not let Kate comb his hair, And strikes in the struggle his head 'gainst a chair.

Anon, comes the blessing

Of silence once more;
My desk again facing,
I muse as before,

While Dan sits caressing

The cat on the floor.

Now Dan, if he may,

Will have his own way,

And puss is not overly partial to play:

Her beard he would catch

She gives him a scratch.

Quick-causing a roar only thunder could match!

The baby its lungs

(Two miniature gongs)

Now worketh with energy fine:

The school is let out,

And now with a shout

Our quota are on us to dine.

Each tongue goes quick as an alarm bell;

Mamma herself confesses-sooth to tell

The din of Babel imitated well!

O mercy! mercy! how they ever go,

In one unceasing flow!

Not one there cares a jot

Who listens or does not,

And yet they seem in keen contention hot,

Till I could almost wish a mill-stone in each throat!

In vain with sudden tramp

Upon the floor I stamp ;

In vain I hope for peace 'mid forks and knives,

And hungry girls and boys

Whose very heaven seems noise :

I own that man is mad who ever wives!

The dinner over, and the youngsters gone
Once more to school-a riddance blest! anon,

With zeal redoubled I proceed anew
The thread of some fond fancy to pursue,
When-hark you there!

I do declare

That horrid kitchen-maid begins her scrubbing!
A damsel with red hair who brooks no snubbing.

Flop-slop,

Bucket and mop

Splashing about till I swear she must stop.

What now?

Bless our lives!

She's scouring the knives;

You'd think-such the discord-a saw-mill she drives Now plies she the poker

Till I feel like to choke her;

That woman would make a first-rate steamboat stoker!

Provoked to a passion, I swear by the saints

To go for the fashion of living in tents,

Or choose me a cave, in some solitude far,
Where no such dread discords my musings may mar
And donning my hat in a terrible ire,

I bolt from the house as if all were on fire,
Convinced that if ever I finish that stave
It can only be after I find out the-cave.