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She took the glass where Love's warm hands
A bright impervious vapor cast, She looks, but cannot see the sands,
Although she feels they 're falling fast. But cold hours came, and then, alas !
She saw them falling frozen through, Till Love's warm light suffused the glass, And hid the loos'ning sands from view !
DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY,
DEATH AND CUPID.
AH! who but oft hath marvelled why
The gods, who rule above, Should e'er permit the young to die,
The old to fall in love?
Ah! why should hapless human kind
Be punished out of season?
My rhyme may give the reason.
Met Cupid, with his sparrows; And, bantering in a merry way,
Proposed a change of arrows.
The queerest game of errors ;
And I'll be King of Terrors !”
That multiplied their arts !
A portion of his darts.
Despite the gods above,
JOHN GODFREY SAXE,
LOVE-LETTERS MADE OF FLOWERS.
An exquisite invention this,
What delight in some sweet spot
all of lily and rose,
THE BIRTH OF PORTRAITURE.
As once a Grecian maiden wove
Her garland mid the summer bowers, There stood a youth, with eyes of love,
To watch her while she wreathed the flowers. The youth was skilled in painting's art,
But ne'er had studied woman's brow, Nor knew what magic hues the heart
Can shed o'er Nature's charm, till now.
Blest be Love, to whom we owe
His hand had pictured many a rose,
And sketched the rays that lit the brook ; But what were these, or what were those,
To woman's blush, to woman's look ? “Oh ! if such magic power there be,
This, this,” he cried, “is all my prayer,