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Left with the dregs of life, its wine poured out;

Left to the past a prey;

From its sad ghosts that haunt my heart about, Helpless to flee away.

No! I renounce life's bliss-love's perfect flower, Sweet though it be !-I choose

The lower, lasting lot, and keep the power,

Without a pang, to lose.

W. W. STORY.

WINDLE-STRAWS.

I.

@ERE life to last for ever, love,

We might go hand in hand,

And pause and pull the flowers that blow
In all the idle land;

And we might lie in sunny fields

And while the hours away With fallings-out and fallings-in For half a summer day.

But since we two must sever, love,
Since some dim hour we part,

I have no time to give thee much

66

But quickly take my heart,

'For ever thine," and "thine my love,"

O Death may come apace.

What more of love could life bestow,

Dearest, than this embrace?

II.

HE kissed me on the forehead,
She spake not any word,

The silence flowed between us,

And I nor spoke nor stirred.

So hopeless for my sake it was,

So full of ruth, so sweet,

My whole heart rose and blessed her,

-Then died before her feet.

EDWARD DOWDEN.

BAGATELLES.

HE wanton bee that suck'd the rose
Has lured a leaf away;

The love that in my bosom glows
Must stay, and stay, and stay.

And when the rose began to die,
The bee ran up away;

But Kitty in my love shall lie
Beyond the dying day.

I'd like to be the lavender

That makes her linen sweet,

And swoon and sweeten in her breast,
And faint around her feet.

She'd hardly think of me at all,

And shake out lawn and sheet;

And yet I'd be the lavender

And make her linen sweet.

THEOPHILE MARZIALS.

I

TRAGEDIES.

HE reach'd a rosebud from the tree,
And bit the tip and threw it by ;
My little rose, for you and me,

The worst is over when we die !

For love is like the China-rose

That leafs so quickly from the tree ;And life, though all the honey goes, Lasts ever, like the pot pourri.

She was only a woman, famish'd for loving,
Mad with devotion, and such slight things.
And he was a very great musician,

And used to finger his fiddle-strings.

Her heart's sweet gamut is cracking and breaking For a look, for a touch,-for such slight things; But he's such a very great musician,

Grimacing and fing'ring his fiddle-strings.

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