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DORIS.

And all without went on,-as aye it will,
Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart
Is breaking, or has broken, in its change.

The fire beneath the crucible was out;
The vessels of his mystic art lay round,
Useless and cold as the ambitious hand
That fashioned them, and the small rod,
Familiar to his touch for threescore years,
Lay on th’ alembic's rim, as if it still
Might vex the elements at its master's will.

And thus had passed from its unequal frame
A soul of fire,—a sun-bent eagle stricken
From his high soaring down,-an instrument
Broken with its own compass. Oh, how poor
Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies,
Like the adventurous bird that hath out-flown
His strength upon the sea, ambition-wrecked,
A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits
Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest.

DORIS. T SAT with Doris, the shepherd maiden ; 1 Her crook was laden with wreathed flowers ; I sat and wooed her, through sunlight wheeling

And shadows stealing, for hours and hours.

And she, my Doris, whose lap encloses

Wild summer roses of sweet perfume, The while I sued her kept hushed, and hearkened

Till shades had darkened from gloss to gloom.

She touched my shoulder with fearful finger;

She said, “ We linger, we must not stay; My flock’s in danger, my sheep will wander:

Behold them yonder, how far they stray ! ”

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I answered bolder, “Nay, let me hear you,

And still be near you, and still adore !
No wolf nor stranger will touch one yearling!

Ah! stay, my darling, a moment more!”

She whispered, sighing, " There will be sorrow

Beyond to-morrow, if I lose to-day;
My fold unguarded, my flock unfolded-

I shall be scolded and sent away!”

Said I, replying, “ If they do miss you,

They ought to kiss you when you get home; And well rewarded, by friend and neighbor,

Should be the labor from which you come.”'

“They might remember,” she answered meekly,

“ That lambs are weakly, and sheep are wild ; But if they love me it's not so fervent

I am a servant and not a child.”

Then each hot ember glowed quick within me,

And love did win me to swift reply; Ah! do but prove me, and none shall bind you,

Nor fray nor find you, until I die.”

She blushed and started, and stood awaiting,

As if debating in dreams divine;
But I did brave them I told her plainly

She doubted vainly, she must be mine.

So we, twin-hearted, from all the valley

Did rouse and rally her nibbling ewes;
And homeward drove them, we two together,

Through blooming heather and gleaming dews.

That simple duty new grace did lend her,

My Doris tender, my Doris true;
That I, her warder, did always bless her,

And often press ber to take her due.

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And now in beauty she fills my dwelling

With love excelling, and undefiled;
And love doth guard her, both fast and fervent,

No more a servant, nor yet a child.

SHIPS ON THE SEA.-Hood.
T LAUNCHED a shallop on the sea,

1 I wrote “ Ambition ” round the prow; It sped before the breezes free

White broke the wave beneath the bow.

The calm gray sky of early morn

Was flecked and barred with golden clouds, As onward that small bark was borne,

While fresh’ning breezes shrilled the shrouds.

But ere the sun mid-heaven clomb,

The storm-wreck mounted to the sky; The mad’ning sea grew pale with foam,

And lurid lightning leaped on high.

Back, back, my little boat was driven,

The cordage reft, the canvas rent, Till on the shore its timbers riven

The breakers scattered as they spent.

And yet another tiny boat

I ventured on the hungry brine;
And “ Hope” about the prow I wrote --

'Twas launched at evening's dim decline.

I hung a lantern on the mast,

A glow-worm spark, which faintly burned, That, by the slender ray it cast,

My shallop's course might be discerned.

Night closed around the fated bark;

I saw the gleaming cresset drown ;

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For, in the silence and the dark

Of middle night, the “ Hope” went down.

And now I sit upon the shore,

The jest of all that wander there;
And on the sand, for evermore,

I write the single word “ Despair.”

THE FOX AND THE RANGER.-LOVER. N E WELSKIN. Ha! ha! you fonnee feylow! by gar, you

are de von great rog, Monsieur Rory. Rory. Do you think so, Munseer? DE WELSKIN. Ah, ah! von great rog, rascal, by gar!

Rory. Well, then, there's a pair of us, Divilskin, and if you're ever hanged for being an honest man, it'll be a murdher.

DE WELSKIN. Tank you, Rory, tank you, my boy; but, by gar, you are de big rog. So cunning you are, ma foi, you are so cunning as dat littel animal vot runs about; vos you call 'im ?

Rory. Magpies, is it?
DE WELSKIN. No, no, no!
Rory. Magpies is the cunningest bastes in the world.

DE WELSKIN. No, no, no, not dat! Bah! vot you call de littel ting vot runs about vid a broshe.

Rory. Sweeps, is it?
DE WELSKIN. I say dat animal vot de gentlemen runs aftere.
RORY. That's an heiress.
DE WELSKIN. No, no, no!-dat animal vot ve call le reynard.
RORY. Oh! sly reynard, the fox, you mane.

DE WĖLSKIN. De faux-de faux-dat is him ; you be cunning as von faux, Mistair Rory.

Rory. Oh, the fox is a cunnin' baste, in throth; an' will you tell me, Munseer, have yiz got foxes in France ?

DE WELSKIN. Oh, yais, sairtanlee; faux very moshe.

Rory. I'll howld you à quart o’porther, that they're not to compare with the Irish foxes in the regard o'cunnin'.

DE WELSKIN. Ver moshe cunning, French faux.

THE FOX AND THE RANGER.

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· RORY. Why, an Irish fox would sthrip a French fox of his skin, and sell it before his face, and th’ other not know it.

DE WELSKIN. Bah! bah! bah!

Rory. Tut, man, you don't know what devils them Irish foxes is. Did you ever hear of the fox of Ballybothrum ?

DE WELSKIN. Ballabot-bosh-vaut you call him?

Rory. Ballybothrum; oh! that was the fox in airnest! devil · such a fox ever was before or sense, as that same fox; and the thing I'm going to tell you happened to a relation of my own, one Mickee Rooney, that was a ranger in the sarvice of the Lord knows who.

DE WELSKIN. Lord Whaat?

Rory. Lord knows who; a great lord in them parts. But as I was tellin' you, Munseer, the ranger lived in a small taste of a cabin, beside the wood, all alone by himself, barrin' the dogs that was his companions.

DE WELSKIN. De daugs?

RORY. Yes; himself and the dogs was the only Christians in the place, and one night, when he kem home, wet and wairy wid the day's sport, he sot down beside the fire, just as we're sittin' here, and begun smoking his pipe to warm himself, and when he tuk an air o' the fire, he thought he'd go to bed—not to sleep, you persaive, but to rest himself like; so he took off his clothes, and hung them to dhry forninst the fire, and then he went to bed, and an illigant bed it was; the finest shafe o' sthraw you ever seen, lyin' over in the corner, as it might be there, and as he was lyin' in bed, thinking o' nothin' at all, and divartin' himself with lookin' at the smoke curlin' up out o’the fire, what should he sec but the door open, and a fox march into the place, just as bowld as if the house was his own; an' he went over and sot down on his hunkers forninst the fire, and begun to warm his hands like a Christian ; it's truth I'm tellin' you..

DE WELSKIN. Staup, sair—staup! vere vas de daugs all dis time?

Rory. The dogs; oh, the dogs, is it? Oh, I didn't tell you that! Oh, sure the dogs was runnin' about the wood at the time, ketchin' rabbits—for the fox was listenin', you see, outside the door, and heer'd the ranger tell the dogs to go and ketch him a brace o' rabbits for his supper-for I go bail if the fox didn't know the dogs

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