TO A FORGET-ME-NOT.

WEET flower, that with thy soft blue eye

SWE

Didst once look up in shady spot,

To whisper to the passer-by

Those tender words-Forget-me-not !

Though withered now, thou art to me
The minister of gentle thought,-

And I could weep to gaze on thee,

Love's faded pledge-Forget-me-not.

Thou speak'st of hours when I was young,

And happiness arose unsought,

When she, the whispering woods among,

Gave me thy bloom-Forget-me-not!

That rapturous hour with that dear maid

From memory's page no time shall blot,

When, yielding to my kiss, she said,

"O Theodore--Forget me not!"

TO A FORGET-ME-NOT.

Alas! for love, alas! for truth,

Alas! for man's uncertain lot!

Alas! for all the hopes of youth,

That fade like thee-Forget-me-not!

Alas! for that one image fair,

With all my brightest dreams inwrought,

That walks beside me everywhere,

Still whispering-Forget me not!

O Memory! thou art but a sigh

For friendships dead and loves forgot;

And many a cold and altered eye,

That once did say-Forget me not!

And I must bow me to thy laws,

For-odd although it may be thought

I can't tell who the deuce it was

That gave me this Forget-me-not.

THEODORE MARTIN.

WITHOUT AND WITHIN.

M

Y coachman, in the moonlight there,

Looks through the side-light of the door;

I hear him with his brethren swear,

As I could do,-but only more.

Flattening his nose against the pane,
He envies me my brilliant lot,
Breathes on his aching fists in vain,

And dooms me to a place more hot.

He sees me in to supper go,

A silken wonder by my side,

Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row

Of flounces, for the door too wide.

WITHOUT AND WITHIN.

He thinks how happy is my arm

'Neath its white-gloved and jewelled load;

And wishes me some dreadful harm,

Hearing the merry corks explode.

Meanwhile I inly curse the bore

Of hunting still the same old coon,

And envy him, outside the door,

In golden quiets of the moon.

The winter wind is not so cold
As the bright smile he sees

me win,

Nor the host's oldest wine so old

As our poor gabble sour and thin.

I envy him the ungyved prance

By which his freezing feet he warms, And drag my lady's-chains and dance

The galley-slave of dreary forms.

SPECTATOR AB EXTRA.

O, could he have my share of din,

And I his quiet!-past a doubt

'Twould still be one man bored within,

And just another bored without.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

SPECTATOR AB EXTRA.

SI sat at the café I said to myself,

As

They may talk as they please about what

they call pelf,

They may sneer as they like about eating and

drinking,

But help it I cannot, I cannot help thinking

How pleasant it is to have money,

heigh-ho!

How pleasant it is to have money.