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Seated in social converse sweet,
The hours sped quickly past:
His motives first and last.
And as the kitchen door would ope,
Was the olfactory nerve,
Which would as whetstone serve
Of appetite. Tables and chairs,
All in their places stood,
To make all very good.
What means that loud, tremendous crasb
Why startle with affright! Why stands aghast yon trembling girl;
With lips so ashy wnite ?
Ah, me! my dear, said Mrs. P.,
Ours is a woful lot;
Upset the dinner-pot!
Yes, there a most delicious stew
Lies strewn along the floor! I'm sure those boards have never kvows
Such feasting times before.
Each to the other comfort spoke,
For; from a bounteous store,
We ate and laughed once more.
And all agreed with one accord,
That we'd forget it not,
With that said dinner-pote
A few other choice selections may not be without interest to the reader:
I've floated o'er eartis on a beam of light,
Wrillon for tho aniversary of 1858.
On the downy breath of the sportive breeze,
THE RETURN. *
All-hallowing memory, holy, blest,
Comes like the wind-harp's note at ever,
With glimpses of its promised heaven.
Fond moment of terrestrial bliss!
In fancy's magic mirror bright,
And hear a father's sweet good night
• Emotions of a frond, who, after long absence froin hume, drank the Crotob water a few mon err hefnra landing at New York.
I've wandered from my boyhood's home,
And stood beneath Italia's skies; I've trod thy streets, imperial Rome,
And learned now earth-born splendor dies.
in sunny France, 'mid England's bowers,
And Scotland, with its varied view Of rocky glens and lovely flowers
Each fairy haunt how well I knew!
And mused o'er Erin's shamrock green,
So precious to each Irish heart, Till in the faded past were seen
Its glories from the dust to start.
I'm turning from these scenes away
To thee, my boyhood's happy home; To the fond friends of early day,
Like the lone, wandering dove, I coma
And while I quaff the waters bright,
Dear Croton, of thy crystal stream, Unnumbered airy dreams of light,
Around my truant fancy beam.
Light of my life art thou to me,
Sweet home, my first and latest star; I never knew how dear thou’dst be,
Till I had wandered thus afar.
So, sacred Nile, thy sons for thee
Would weep in Cashmere's lovely vale, Look wildly on Marmora's sea,
Nor heed Arabia's spicy gale.
But sigh for Egypt's pleasant stream,
That washed their sunny land the while Day's star of hope, night's dearest dream,
Were the sweet waters of the Nile
MISS DAPHNE S. GILES.
* With affections warm, intense, refined,
There is perhaps no manifestation of the human intellect that more conclusively proves its immor. tality, than our constant discontent with the present, and insatiate reaching forward after objects of desire shrouded in the vista of futurity. Before the budding mind is sufficiently developed to comprehend its responsibility or learn its destiny, the heart is moved forward by an innate impulse, and the pure fancy is impressed with alluring images, natives of a brighter sphere. When in the sunny hours of child hood we sport upon the flowery lawn, sit by the mur. muring rill, as it gently meanders along its willowed banks, or chase with fantastic tread the gay butterfly over the rich green meadows, plucking from our path the lily and the wild rose, life seems to us but one scene of charining beauty, unsullied by the snares of sin.
Yet oft from those innocent sports we turn away, anr hearts panting for maturer. years; and, while glancing to the future, we paint in our youthful ardor