The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued
Too tight for all expressin',

Tell mother see how matters stood,
An' gin 'em both her blessin'.

Then her red come back like the tide
Down to the bay o' Fundy,
An' all I know is they was cried

In meetin' come nex' Sunday.

The mossy marbles rest

On the lips that he has prest
In their bloom,

And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said—
Poor old lady, she is dead
Long ago—

That he had a Roman nose,

And his cheek was like a rose
In the snow;

But now his nose is thin,

And it rests upon his chin
Like a staff,

And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh

I know it is a sin

For me to sit and grin
At him here;

But his old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches, and all that,
Are so queer!

And if I should live to be

The last leaf upon the tree
In the spring,

Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough

Where I cling.

O. W. Holmes.

A LETTER OF ADVICE

FROM MISS MEDORA TREVILIAN, AT PADUA, TO MISS
ARAMINTA VAVASOUR, IN LONDON

You tell me you're promised a lover,

My own Araminta, next week;

Why cannot my fancy discover

The hue of his coat and his cheek? Alas! if he look like another,

A vicar, a banker, a beau,

Be deaf to your father and mother,
My own Araminta, say 'No!'

Miss Lane, at her Temple of Fashion,

Taught us both how to sing and to speak,
And we loved one another with passion,
Before we had been there a week:
You gave me a ring for a token;
I wear it wherever I go;
I gave you a chain,-is-it broken?
My own Araminta, say 'No!'

O think of our favourite cottage,

And think of our dear Lalla Rookh!

How we shared with the milkmaids their pottage, And drank of the stream from the brook;

How fondly our loving lips faltered,

'What further can grandeur bestow?' My heart is the same;-is yours altered? My own Araminta, say 'No!'

Remember the thrilling romances
We read on the bank in the glen;
Remember the suitors our fancies
Would picture for both of us then.

They wore the red cross on their shoulder,

They had vanquished and pardoned their foe— Sweet friend, are you wiser or colder?

My own Araminta, say 'No!'

You know, when Lord Rigmarole's carriage,
Drove off with your cousin Justine,
You wept, dearest girl, at the marriage,
And whispered 'How base she has been!'
You said you were sure it would kill you,
If ever your husband looked so;
And you will not apostatize,-will you?
My own Araminta, say 'No!'

When I heard I was going abroad, love,
I thought I was going to die;

We walked arm in arm to the road, love,
We looked arm in arm to the sky;
And I said 'When a foreign postilion
Has hurried me off to the Po,
Forget not Medora Trevilian:

My own Araminta, say "No"!'

We parted! but sympathy's fetters

Reach far over valley and hill;

I muse o'er you exquisite letters,

And feel that your heart is mine still;
And he who would share it with me, love,-
The richest of treasures below,—

If he's not what Orlando should be, love,
My own Araminta, say 'No!'

If he wears a top-boot in his wooing,
If he comes to you riding a cob,
If he talks of his baking or brewing,
If he puts up his feet on the hob,

If he ever drinks port after dinner,
If his brow or his breeding is low,
If he calls himself Thompson' or 'Skinner,'
My own Araminta, say 'No!'

If he studies the news in the papers
While you are preparing the tea,
If he talks of the damps or the vapours
While moonlight lies soft on the sea,
If he's sleepy while you are capricious,
If he has not a musical 'Oh!'

If he does not call Werther delicious,-
My own Araminta, say 'No!'

If he ever sets foot in the city
Among the stockbrokers and Jews,
If he has not a heart full of pity,

If he don't stand six feet in his shoes,
If his lips are not redder than roses,
If his hands are not whiter than snow,
If he has not the model of noses,-
My own Araminta, say 'No!'

If he speaks of a tax or a duty,

If he does not look grand on his knees, If he's blind to a landscape of beauty,

Hills, valleys, rocks, waters, and trees, If he dotes not on desolate towers,

If he likes not to hear the blast blow, If he knows not the language of flowers,— My own Araminta, say 'No!'

He must walk-like a god of old story
Come down from the home of his rest;
He must smile-like the sun in his glory
On the buds he loves ever the best;