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THE COQUETTE.-SAXE “ V OU'RE clever at drawing, I own,"
1 Said my beautiful cousin, Lisette, As we sat by the window alone,
“But say, can you paint a Coquette ?” “She's painted already," quoth I;
“Nay, nay!” said the laughing Lisette, “Now, none of your joking,--but try
And paint me a thorough Coquette.”
“Well, cousin,” at once I began .
In the ear of the eager Lisette, “I'll paint you as well as I can
That wonderful thing, a Coquette.
“ She wears a most beautiful face
(Of course !-said the pretty Lisette), And isn't deficient in grace,
Or else she were not a Coquette. « And then she is daintily made
(A smile from the dainty Lisette), By people expert in the trade
Of forming a proper Coquette. “She's the winningest ways with the beaux
(Go on!-said the winning Lisette), But there isn't a man of them knows
The mind of the fickle Coquette!
“She knows how to weep and to sigh
(A sigh from the tender Lisette), But her weeping is all in my eye,
Not that of the cunning Coquette ! “In short, she's a creature of art
(0 hush !—said the frowning Lisette), With merely the ghost of a heart,
Enough for a thorough Coquette.
Rich is the inheritance it leaves, the example it testifies ! Pure, precious, and imperishable the hope which it inspires ! Can there be conceived a more atrocious injury than to filch from its possessor this inestimable benefit; to rob society of its charm, and solitude of its solace; not only to outlaw life, but to attaint death, converting the very grave, the refuge of the sufferer, into the gate of infamy and of shame! I can conceive of but few crimes beyond it.
He who plunders my property takes from me that which can be repaired by time. But what period can repair a ruined reputation? He who maims my person, effects that which medicine may remedy. But what herb has sovereignty over the wounds of slander ? He who ridicules my poverty, or reproaches my profession, upbraids me with that which industry may retrieve, and integrity may purify. But what riches shall redeem a bankrupt fame? What power shall blanch the sullied snow of character ? There can be no injury more deadly. There can be no crime more cruel. It is without remedy; without antidote; without evasion.
The reptile, calumny, is ever on the watch. From the fascination of its eye, no activity can escape. From the venom of its fang, no sanity can recover. It has no enjoyment but crime; no prey but virtue; no interval from the restlessness of its malice, save when, bloated with its victims, it grovels, to disgorge them at the withered shrine where envy idolizes her own infirmities.
OVER THE WAY.
W Out from the golden day;
Over the silent way.
Over the bosom tenderly
The pearl-white hands are pressed,
The pure lids closed to rest.
Over the sweet brow lovingly
Twineth her sunny hair;
Light as the dimpling air.
Gone to sleep with the tender smile
Froze on her silent lips
Cold in the clasp of the angel of death ;
Whose bloom the white frost nips.
Robin,--hushed in your downy bed,
Over the swinging bough,--.-
In orient crimson glow ?
Rosebud,—under your shady leaf,
Hid from the sunny day,— ..
Whose blue was heaven to your timid sight?
Over the starry way.
Hearts --where the darling's head hath lain,
Held by love's shining ray,—
Over the starry way?
DRESS AND DRINK.
Hoard of youthful sweets ?
Look upon that reeling,
Haggard man of care,
Roaming anywhere !
See that fair wife flying
From her husband's wrath,
Dying in her path!
Bloody knife still reeking
In his desperate hand,
Round him in a band !
DIES IRÆ.—THOMAS DE CELANO.
Earth shall end in flame and sorrow,
Ah! what terror is impending,
Death and Nature, mazed, are quaking,
On the written Volume's pages,