LOVE'S JEALOUSY.

OF other men I know no jealousy, Nor of the maid who holds thee close, oh, close:

But of the June-red, summerscented rose,

And of the orange-streaked sunset

sky

That wins the soul of thee through thy deep eye;

And of the breeze by thee beloved, that goes

O'er thy dear hair and brow; the song that flows

Into thy heart of hearts, where it may die.

I would I were one moment that sweet show

Of flower; or breeze beloved that toucheth all;

Or sky that through the summer eve doth burn.

I would I were the song thou lovest so, At sound of me to have thine eyelid fall:

But I would then to something human turn.

AND WERE THAT BEST?

AND were that best, Love, dreamless, endless sleep?

Gone all the fury of the mortal day;

The daylight gone, and gone the starry ray!

And were that best, Love, rest serene and deep?

Gone labor and desire; no arduous steep

To climb, no songs to sing, no prayers to pray,

No help for those who perish by the way,

No laughter 'midst our tears, no tears to weep!

And were that best, Love, sleep with no dear dream,

Nor memory of any thing in life? Stark death that neither help nor hurt can know!

Oh, rather, Love, the sorrow-bringing gleam,

The living day's long agony and strife!

Rather strong love in pain,- the waking woe!

Careless their merits or their faults to scan,

His pity gave, ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,

And e'en his failings leaned to vir tue's side;

But in his duty, prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all;

And, as a bird each fond endearment tries

To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,

He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,

Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

knew;

[From The Deserted Village.]

THE HAPPINESS OF PASSING ONE'S AGE IN FAMILIAR PLACES.

IN all my wanderings round this world of care,

In all my griefs and God has given my share

I still had hopes my latest hours to

crown,

Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;

To husband out life's taper at the close,

us still

for pride attends

Amidst the swains to show my booklearned skill,

Around my fire an evening group to draw,

And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,

Pants to the place from whence at first she flew,

I still had hopes, my long vexations past,

Here to return-and die at home at last.

O blest retirement! friend to life's decline! Retreat from care, that never must be mine!

Have led their children through the mirthful maze,

And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore,

Has frisked beneath the burden of threescore.

So blest a life these thoughtless realms display,

Thus idly busy rolls their world away: Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear,

For honor forms the social temper here:

Honor, that praise which real merit gains

Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, Here passes current; paid from hand to hand,

It shifts in splendid traffic round the land:

From courts, to camps, to cottages it strays,

And all are taught an avarice of praise;

They please, are pleased, they give to get esteem.

Till,

seeming blest, they grow to what they seem.

But while this softer art their bliss supplies,

It gives their follies also room to rise; For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought,

Enfeebles all internal strength of thought;

And the weak soul, within itself unblest,

Leans for all pleasure on another's breast.

Hence Ostentation here, with tawdry

art,